Survive the Walking Dead
by thecatmomma
Summary: Alaska is known as the last frontier, but that nickname has become an unfortunate truth after the zombie apocalypse. With the refugee center mysteriously overrun and winter looming, those left in the Fairbanks area have one thing left to do, no matter the cost: survive.
1. One: Death is the Road

**A/N:** Hello and welcome! Let me give a quick explanation. I started this fic in May 2018 and my writing skills have drastically improved in the year and a half since then. Over the past few months, several chapters of this fic had just become shameful to me when I knew I was capable of so much better. This is the 'second draft' of Survive the Walking Dead, my own TWD spin-off that follows a cast of characters unrelated to the show.

**Disclaimer:** The Walking Dead is property of Robert Kirkman, AMC, and probably others, none of which include me. The titles for this chapter and the next come from a quote by Sri Chinmoy. This story **DOES** feature canon-typical violence and gore throughout, as well as a handful of F-bombs.

**I know this first chapter is long, but most of the others are almost half this, so please don't let the length dissuade you from continuing!**

* * *

**FORT McADAMS, FAIRBANKS, ALASKA…  
**

"Thirty three days." Sergeant Reynolds reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and produced a can of beer. He adjusted the nearest canvas chair close to the building's corrugated metal exterior, then sat. "That's over a month with no contact from the higher-ups, man." He shook his head and popped the can open. Warm beer foamed over the top. Reynolds grimaced and flapped his hand towards the ground, sending droplets to the asphalt.

"Has it really been that long?" Private Lancaster turned to his superior with wide eyes. He'd learned long ago that keeping track of the days only made him more depressed, only confirmed his fears that things weren't going to get better anytime soon.

"Mhm," Reynolds hummed. He took a few gulps of beer. "We're gonna have to do something, and soon."

Lancaster nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. Something was wrong and they both knew it, but this was the first time Reynolds had spoken of it. Fort McAdams was the last stop for a lot of people if their supplies bottomed out. Many of them had nowhere else to go or wouldn't make it on their own. Elderly, disabled, those that were sick with something that didn't turn them into a monster. Lancaster and his fellow National Guardsmen were the only thing standing between over a hundred people and the horrors of the world.

Around them, Alaskan wilderness stretched on as far as the eye could see. The mountains were faintly outlined on the horizon, seeming to glow orange under the setting sun. A cool breeze rustled through trees just on the edge of changing into golds and reds, carrying the autumn scents of dampness and decaying leaves. There had always been an element of mystery to these surroundings, but since being sent to Fort McAdams, it sent a chill up Lancaster's spine. Were there hordes of the undead hiding amongst those trees, or scared people turned marauders lying in wait to take their supplies? There was no way to know for sure, and all that separated them from the unknown was a measly perimeter of chain link fence. To the left, a long strip of concrete led to half a dozen barracks buildings where the Fort's refugees stayed. A gate was secured by barbed wire at the top and a padlock in the middle to keep the people within safe. If anyone inside was aware that gate actually wouldn't do jack shit if they got more than ten biters, they didn't show it.

"So, Private." Reynolds exhaled heavily. "I guess there's no way to soften this blow, so I'll just come right out with it...Governor Eisenberg's been on her own for a while."

Lancaster's mouth went dry. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly, but the way Reynolds had tensed, refusing to look him in the eye, already told him more than he really wanted to know.

Reynolds started to reply but snapped his mouth shut. A metallic clanging mixed with guttural growls and shrieks drifted from somewhere beyond the corner of the Fort. The Sergeant set down his beer and shot to his feet, pulling his rifle around and tucking it against his shoulder. He held one hand up, telling Lancaster to stay put, and stayed close to the building as he rushed forward.

"Biters" he called. Three shots rang out. Reynolds nodded forward and said, "Come look at this shit."

Lancaster jogged over, one hand resting on the pistol at his hip. A female was slumped against the fence, half her head missing. Her teeth were chipped and yellowed, and her eyes were sunken deep in the sockets. Beside her were two males in similar shape, although one wasn't quite as decayed, giving Lancaster the impression it hadn't been long since he turned. Brown clods clung to the fence and dripped onto the asphalt below. Reynolds stepped forward and used the muzzle of his gun to shove a particularly large chunk of skull through a gap, then squinted through the scope to scan the area. Once he was satisfied they were in the clear, he stalked back to his chair.

Lancaster followed, and a tense silence mounted as Reynolds leisurely sucked down the remainder of his beer, either unaware or not caring that he'd left Lancaster about to puke. Finally, he explained, "Everything has been quiet since about a week after we got here. There hasn't been any news about the lower forty-eight, the other cities, nothing."

"You told us there was progress!" Lancaster momentarily forgot this was his superior and saw only a man who had lied. The unspoken consequences here pounded in his brain - there was a line of succession, and if it was quiet, that had to mean everyone was gone. "All those times you told us that this city was contained or that state was doing better, it was all lies?"

Everything was simple for the first couple weeks. Communication with Governor Eisenberg gave the men a sense of progress and duty. She'd give orders and updates on their attempts to maintain stability around the state and organize supply drop-offs from the Red Cross. Then, one day of no response turned into thirty three. It had been equally long since they'd received supplies, and just like the world ending, Fort McAdam's simplicity had gone in a flash.

"You're the ones that believed the phones have stayed up all this time." Reynolds shrugged. "You believed it because you wanted to, and that's why I fed you all those lines of bullshit in the first place. I had to throw you guys a bone. I had to keep up morale. We had to put these refugees first." He shook his head, a coldness coming to his eyes. "Those days are over. We are either the National Guard or we are survivors. I don't see us being both for much longer."

Lancaster's heart raced. The world spun as every shred of hope he'd clung to since the start unraveled. "What are you saying?" He regarded the other man with a look of bewilderment, unnerved by his coldness. "I mean, what are you suggesting here?"

"This place is ours," Reynolds said, punctuating each syllable by thumping his fist against his leg. "We're the ones defending this Fort and dealing with the same morons expecting us to pull food out of our ass every day. We're the ones who've tried to make everything okay, and it's never enough. We're the ones who have stuck our necks out for everyone, not knowing if our own families have made it." He motioned to himself and then Lancaster. "Me. You. Farris, Hall, Billingsley, and Arnold. Everyone else, well…" Reynolds trailed off and shrugged, relaxing back into his chair. "They're going to find out how good they had it soon enough."

Once again at a loss for words, Lancaster couldn't focus on anything but the sinking feeling in his gut. Reynolds was talking like he wanted to pull some reversed coup on his own people, innocent refugees they were supposed to help. Even worse, Lancaster knew they had truly reached the end of the line. Not just Fort McAdams, but the entire state, maybe even the whole country. Reynolds would never talk like that or do anything to risk his rank unless he knew he could get away with it.

Still, Lancaster didn't want to believe. This was too much to take in at once, too much for him to accept. He had to hope this was just Reynolds' 'glass half empty' attitude showing. "Sarge..." Lancaster began slowly, knowing he was already treading on thin ice by questioning him. "What if you're wrong? Maybe the lines are down, or Eisenberg and them got overrun? It doesn't mean they're all dead."

"Wishful thinking is one thing, Lancaster. Reality is another." Reynolds paused, gnawing his lip for a long moment. "Last I heard, things were not good in Juneau, or Anchorage, or anywhere. So, with that in mind, I know we - well, you have two choices." He started towards the door that led inside, stopping to turn back towards Lancaster once he reached them. "You have a place here if you want it, but you have to accept what's going to happen. If you can't, don't let the door hit you on your way out."

"What are you going to do?" Lancaster demanded, shooting to his feet. He was almost afraid of the answer. Was Reynolds just going to tell those people to leave? He was smart enough to know a good portion of them would outright refuse, and then what would he do? Shoot them? The thought sent a jolt of panic through the young Private, making him clench his fists. When Reynolds simply looked him up and down and didn't respond, Lancaster huffed. "Sir, these people didn't ask for this any more than we did. I don't know exactly what you have in mind, but there has to be another way."

"The times are a-changin'." A thin smile spread across Reynold's face. "Sink or swim, kid. It's up to you." With that said, he went inside and let the heavy door slam shut. Dirt puffed out from some of the bricks surrounding the jamb.

Leaving was not an option for Lancaster, he knew that much. He had no more survival skills than the refugees. But how could he even consider playing a part in this scheme to send those people to almost certain death, just to save his own ass? Had the world really gone that far down hill?

Things were still routine at the Fort. They had a couple of fuel guzzling generators that gave them power, reserves that gave them water, and though food was becoming an issue, no one was starving. If the able-bodied survivors took on a bigger role, Lancaster was confident they could continue as they were. But that was not an avenue Sergeant Reynolds would be interested in, however. He'd made it clear he wanted to rule the roost and keep what resources they had for himself.

Lancaster collapsed back into his chair, watching the sinking sun with a strange sense of knowing. He was not a leader. He was not a survivor. He simply got lucky. These were three facts he had come to accept over the past few months. Now his luck was running out, and he had one hell of a choice to make.

* * *

**RED FOX CREEK, FIFTEEN MILES OUTSIDE FAIRBANKS, ALASKA…**

Although he used to be a 'don't talk to me before my third cup of coffee' kind of guy, morning had become Ben Wallace's favorite time of day. That was when camp was most like the way it had been when his gold mining venture was in operation. Sometimes, for just a few minutes, he could pretend everything was normal. Just like before, people lumbered out of their trailers and tents, looking to Ben for direction. The only difference was these were not familiar faces. They were people he had known for a couple months at the most, a week at minimum. Folks that had been looking for somewhere to run. Survivors, just like him.

"Good morning, boss." Samantha gazed down from her sentry post atop the Peterson's trailer. She sat in a folding chair with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, flipping through a weathered copy of _Of Mice and Men_. She smiled and said, "You slept late." She was a moon-faced, porcelain-skinned girl with mousy hair pulled back into a single braid. Guard duty was the one job she volunteered for even though she hadn't touched a gun in her life. Everybody knew why – it was almost guaranteed to be uneventful. Red Fox Creek sat on the outskirts of Fairbanks, fifteen miles from the city itself. Walkers were rarely a threat and the only people that could find it, even with a map, were those that had worked there.

"I guess cleaning out all those old shacks yesterday wore me out." Ben shrugged, fighting back a yawn. "Did you get settled in alright?" With Samantha being the most recent addition to the group, figuring out where she would stay had become quite the puzzle. There simply wasn't enough space to accommodate everyone comfortably anymore. All of the trailers and tents were already taken, mostly by families who did not want a stranger for a roommate. Until they found another tent, Samantha's only option was the miner's barracks - little shanties outside the main camp that miners slept in back in the day. Only one proved to be halfway habitable. The rest were dilapidated beyond repair, filled with animal droppings and nests.

She smiled sheepishly and hummed for a moment. "It's a roof over my head, so I guess I can't complain."

"Why not? That hasn't stopped anyone else," Ben replied, smiling despite himself when Samantha giggled. He glanced around and noticed that while most of the group was up chatting and going about their duties, someone was missing. Ben squinted against the sun, trying to pick his wife out of the various people milling about camp. When he realized she was nowhere in sight, he turned back to Samantha with a frown. He asked, "Have you seen Kate?"

"Nope," Samantha answered, shaking her head. She abruptly stiffened and held Ben in a wide-eyed, borderline panicked gaze. "If she wasn't with you...what if something happened to her? I've been up here since dawn and haven't seen her."

"Settle down," Ben said, holding up a hand to stop her from getting too carried away. "She probably just found something to do early this morning. Just let her know I'm looking for her if you see her, okay?" Once Samantha nodded, Ben hurried away before she could jump to any more conclusions. She was a sweet girl, but excitable at the best of times, earning a lot of jokes at her expense from some of the more callous survivors. People forced to spend so much time together were bound to clash, but as long as they didn't let it interfere with their responsibilities, Ben stayed out of it.

The trailers formed a half-circle against the treeline and all of the grass within had been worn down to dirt from such heavy foot traffic over the past couple months. Ben neared the Evans family, standing together in front of their tent, which was set up near the farthest trailer. They were the first family to join the Wallaces. Clarence towered over the other survivors, much like a mountain. He had a mustache speckled with gray that reminded Ben of a koala bear.

Eight-year-old Aaliyah, a spitting image of her father with the same dark skin and big brown eyes, clutched Clarence's arm. "Pleeeease let me go with you, Daddy! I'll behave!" she whined in a way that made Ben glad he and Kate never had kids.

"You're staying with me, and that's the end of it." Keisha pulled off a pair of gardening gloves and stuck them in her cardigan. Tendrils of wiry, black hair clung to her forehead. "You're too little," she said sternly, taking her protesting daughter by the shoulders. "Now, go help Peggy with breakfast." She steered her towards the picnic table in the center of camp and gave her an encouraging push.

"She could watch," Clarence said glumly, as though he was just as disappointed as his daughter. "I think it would be good for her."

Keisha wagged a finger at her husband. "We've been over this how many times now? Aaliyah is not mature enough to have anything to do with guns, let alone that rifle you've been drooling over." The assault rifle Jake and Lauren brought back on their last run had been the talk of the camp for days. Guns were easy to come by in Fairbanks and at this point the group practically had an arsenal. Some thought shooting lessons were a no-brainer while others saw it as inappropriate. Everyone stuck to handguns on scavenging trips, so Ben wasn't sure why Clarence thought an AR-15 was necessary, but he certainly wasn't going to turn down a weapon. They were an integral part of survival whether anybody _liked_ it or not.

Clarence noticed Ben watching their discussion from the sidelines and motioned to him. "Help me out, man. If Aaliyah learns about guns and realizes they aren't some cool toy, it'll take the fun out of it. Don't you agree?"

"Don't ask me." Ben held his hands up in surrender. On the surface, Clarence's idea didn't seem unreasonable. However, Ben had seen enough of that little girl to know nothing good could come from a hyperactive eight-year-old with a gun. "I don't know a thing about kids," he said.

"That's right." Keisha's tone softened, and she smiled. "_I _know how kids are. Letting them play with the dangerous thing they've been begging you for does not help." She dismissed Clarence with a brisk wave of her hand. "You better go on, honey. Jake and Lauren are waiting."

"Hell, Keisha, _I'm_ training them. They aren't gonna leave without me." Clarence hesitated for a moment further, moustache squirming above pursed lips. "Just think it over, will you?"

"I've thought it over plenty," Keisha replied firmly. "Now _go_. And be safe."

As they went their separate ways, Ben backtracked and headed towards the center of camp, where the picnic table was. A wicker basket half full of wild blueberries sat in the center of the picnic table. Peggy Peterson sat on the bench, not looking up from her task of removing the berries from their stems. She was a no-nonsense woman that reminded Ben of his mother...only without any of her more delicate qualities. Her snow-white hair was cropped close to her scalp, and she was content to wear men's hand-me-downs. In the three weeks she'd been with them, Ben had never seen her without her blue flannel shirt, faded, torn, and smelly. Since Peggy and her husband Dean were always up at the crack of dawn, they were happy to take breakfast duty.

"Dean got a bunch of doves this morning," Peggy said, her voice low. She plucked a handful of blueberries and tossed them into the basket. "Your dad's down by the creek helping clean them up."

"How many doves is 'a bunch'?"

"Not enough for thirteen people." Peggy shrugged. "Probably seven or eight."

"Better than nothing, I suppose." Ben walked onward, out of camp and into the dense woods. _Seven or eight?_ Ben couldn't help but be frustrated. He didn't expect Dean to pull off any miracles, but eight winged rats weren't much considering how low their provisions were. The camp's isolation was both a blessing as well as a disadvantage. It took so much time and gasoline just to get to Fairbanks and back that they had to make their scavenging trips count. Usually, that was much easier said than done. Any stores not picked clean were crawling with walkers.

Birds sang their cheerful morning songs amongst the spruce trees. All of Ben's steps kicked up little clouds of dust. Roots from the surrounding aspens protruded along the path, making his descent down the slope like an obstacle course. Muffled voices fought to be heard over the creek's softly rushing waters.

"You don't know how to do anything. You've got to hold onto the bird while you pluck the feathers," Dean grumbled. He and Marvin were on their rumps in the mud, a rusty bucket of doves between them. Loose feathers occasionally blew away only to get stuck in the mud or sucked into the creek.

Marvin fired back, "Did you tell me that? No, you just expect me to know everything,"

"Get a clue. You 'bout threw the thing back to its nest."

The two of them were so preoccupied that they didn't even hear Ben approaching. Sometimes he worried they were getting too comfortable. Not just the old timers, but all of them. To live without dealing with walkers daily was luck mixed with survival, and more than likely just a temporary refuge, but not everyone seemed to understand that. Just because they were out in the boonies didn't mean they were safe.

Ben observed them for a few more moments, then spoke loud and clear. "Looks like you guys had a decent hunt."

Dean gasped. He scrambled to his feet and sent the bucket of birds skittering across the muddy bank. Marvin fumbled with the skinning knife, eventually dropping it. They both whirled to face Ben, their shocked expressions quickly morphing into indignation. Dean clutched his chest, scowling at Ben. "You almost gave me a heart attack! What's the matter with you, sneaking up on people?"

"You guys need to be more aware of your surroundings…okay?" Chastising two much older men, one of whom happened to be his own father, gave Ben the willies. He was used to bossing around twenty and thirty-somethings, that came with running a mining crew. Being 'the boss' of survivors was something else entirely. "If I could sneak up on you then so could a walker."

"Got my .38 special right here." Marvin patted his hip and pushed his glasses back up his hooked nose. "And I appreciate your concern, son, but we don't need a babysitter."

"Yeah." Grunting, Dean dropped to his knees and began tossing the birds back into the bucket. "We've already got a lookout. Right, Courtney?"

"Right." Dean's teenage granddaughter was crouched fifteen feet downstream, expertly rinsing the freshly plucked doves. Whether it was hunting with her grandfather, watching after Aaliyah, or helping with food prep, she never turned her nose up at work. That, combined with the fact that she stood just a head shorter than her six-foot-tall grandfather, sometimes led Ben to forget she was still just a kid. Four plucked and rinsed birds sat on a clean pan further up the bank. If Peggy's estimate was correct, they weren't even half done; by the time breakfast was ready, it would be lunchtime.

"Have you seen Kate?"

"What, she wasn't with you?" Marvin retrieved the knife and wiped the blade on his pants, smearing thick brown streaks across the faded denim.

Ben shook his head. "I didn't think anything of it when I first woke up. She's been having trouble sleeping the last couple nights, goes and sits outside to clear her head now and again. But she's not in camp and Samantha hasn't seen her all morning."

"Well, I wouldn't worry. She can handle herself." Dad shrugged.

There was no polite way to deny that about his own wife, so Ben simply nodded. "Yeah, I know"

"Clarence was complaining about a missing walkie earlier," Dean said. "Try her on that."

"She never takes a radio." Despite his skepticism, Ben pulled the radio from the belt of his cargo pants and pressed the talk button. "Calling for Kate, are you there, Kate?" No voices replied, only crackling static. Of course. Kate wouldn't have a radio. Ben always kept one on him, and the other two stayed in camp unless someone went on a supply run. He decided to humor Dean and try once more. "Kate, are you there?" When he was once again met with nothing but silence, Ben shrugged and started back up the path.

"_A rainbow showed me the way_." He hadn't taken more than two steps before a familiar, yet strangely airy, voice responded. He snatched the radio from his belt and stared at it, wondering if he'd really heard what he thought he had.

"Was that Kate?" Marvin's furrowed brows created deep lines across his forehead. He abandoned his bird-cleaning job and lumbered up the slope to join Ben. "What the hell is she talking about?" he questioned, regarding his son with a look of disbelief.

Ben held up a hand for silence and spoke into the radio. "Kate, honey, is that you?"

"_A rainbow showed me the way_," she repeated cheerfully. "_You can join me, but just you. You're the only one who can_."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Marvin asked, planting his hands on his hips.

Ben shrugged, hardly registering his father's words. That was definitely Kate, he knew that much for certain. He also knew what it meant when she talked crazy. Something like this had happened once before, when she forgot to pick up her prescription. Realization fell over him in a sickeningly hot blanket, making the knot of worry in his gut explode into full on dread that chilled him from head to toe. How could he be so stupid, how could he _forget_? He pressed the talk button again and asked, "Where are you?"

"_I can't stay in camp. It's not safe there, but it is out here._"

"Where is it safe?"

"_Out here in the scrapyard_."

"Okay, I'm coming. You stay right there." Ignoring his father's confused calls, Ben took off at a run along the unmarked scrapyard trail. Tree limbs whipped him about the face and body every few feet no matter how much he tried to duck or push them aside. He'd walked this path a hundred times before, usually to jimmy-rig a piece of equipment or, in recent months, to discard camp waste. This was the first time he ever worried about what he would find there.

Old, torn apart mining machinery spare parts and scrap metal peeked through the foliage as he reached the scrapyard. Kate sat upon a pile of tires with her legs crossed. She still wore the shorts and t-shirt she had gone to bed in, apparently unbothered by the morning chill. Dirt and leaves speckled her wild blonde bedhead. Ben pushed the gate aside then collapsed against the chain-link fence, chest heaving desperately for air.

She smiled. "Good, they showed you too."

"Kate…" He panted, pushing off from the fence and plopping down on the tire beside her. He reached out to wrap an arm around her and she pulled away. "Did you forget to take your medication, or are you out?"

She gave him a wounded glare, as though he'd just backhanded her. "I know I've had my problems, Ben, but I _saw_ them. They showed me the way out. Everyone hates me, they want me gone."

"No, I promise that's not true. You just need your medication." He shrugged his jacket off and cautiously draped it over her shoulders. This time she allowed his touch, pulling the jacket tighter. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault. I should've remembered."

"I know what I saw," she repeated, mouth settling into a thin line. "Nobody listens to me. Nobody understands." Even if she was talking out of her head, there was some truth to her words that left Ben with a heavy feeling of guilt and nothing else to say. This was his wife of sixteen years. They'd been attached at the hip since they were twenty years old. He knew all of her favorite things, the way she liked her eggs, and what kind of jewelry to buy her for their Anniversary.

A few hours ago, he would've called himself a good husband, but none of those little things mattered anymore. The ugly truth was their marriage had taken a back seat to survival. Ever since he became responsible for a whole group, he'd been too busy to do much more than say good morning and good night. He had things to do and people to look after, but he forgot the most important person of all.

The clustered alder trees along the back fence rustled furiously. Ben pulled the nine-millimeter from his waistband and stepped in front of Kate. A stringy-haired walker pushed through the branches and pressed itself against the fence. Its growling grew louder, more eager as Ben drew closer, only to shoot it point-blank in the face. Half of the walker's head splattered onto the chain-link and surrounding dirt, then it dropped to the ground.

"See, it's _not_ safe here. We're too close to the road." Walkers had never found the camp, but they occasionally wandered down the main road. The faded asphalt of the highway was visible from the scrapyard, just twenty or thirty feet up the slope. Ben bobbed up and down, attempting to see through the thick foliage and trees. Satisfied that no more walkers were lying in wait, he replaced the gun at his hip and took Kate's soft hands into his own calloused ones. She wobbled when he pulled her to her feet. "Hey, look at me," he said, waiting until she complied to continue. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Her voice conveyed no more emotion than if she were talking about the weather. Frustration bubbled up inside Ben, making him question what he was doing. Did she understand anything he'd said? Was she aware of how dangerous dilly-dallying around in the scrapyard was? If the absent look in her eyes was any indication, the answer to both of those questions was a hard _no_. Trying to talk her out of her delusions would be futile. Sighing, he moved his hands to her face and ran his thumbs along her dirty, gritty cheeks.

"Let's head back."

* * *

Life at Red Fox Creek could be _really_ boring sometimes. The kind of mind-numbing, soul-sucking monotony where cloud watching was not only an exciting activity, but something to look forward to. This eternal camping trip produced plenty of jobs, but once the laundry was done and the meals were served, Peggy Peterson was often left twiddling her thumbs. Nobody trusted her with anything involving a firearm thanks to her unreliable and arthritic hands that dropped things without warning. Even the ATV, a glorified golf cart, was off limits. Courtney was always off in the woods with Dean and didn't warrant much of her attention anyway, so she couldn't even play homemaker like Keisha.

"Would you look at us. A little girl, a woman who's never touched a gun, an old lady, and…Samantha." Peggy shook her head and shuffled her battered deck of cards for what must've been the tenth time in five minutes. She was no fool. She knew they were the outcasts of the group. The ones too young, old, or inexperienced to do anything useful. Her role was food prep, _clearly_ irreplaceable. The three adults sat at the picnic table while Aaliyah doodled in the dirt with a stick a few feet away.

Keisha said, "To tell you the truth, I don't like this. I know we're out in the middle of nowhere but if something were to happen… "

"We'd be dead meat." Aaliyah's comment surprised all of them, her mother most of all.

Keisha blinked rapidly for a few moments. "The adults are talking, honey."

"She's not wrong," Samantha whispered. "Clarence or Ben should always be here. Both of them gone at once is crazy, they're the only ones that might be able to handle a crisis. I'm the only one here with a gun right now, and how scary is that?"

Her light attempt at humor didn't go unnoticed, though Peggy found it too accurate to be funny. "Bottom line is we need more people. Ben's a fool if he thinks this group can make it through the winter as we are."

"Living space is cramped as it is," Keisha argued. "In fact, I've been meaning to talk to him about finding more trailers or something. The temperature's dropping more and more every night."

"Well, I've got no complaints there." Peggy grinned. "Ben has a soft spot for us old folks, you know. That's why we get the second-best trailer."

"Yeah, I know. That's why my family got kicked to the tent when you showed up." Keisha pursed her lips. "Ben says Clarence is like his lieutenant then sticks us outside to freeze."

Marvin's voice suddenly chimed in, making all three of them flinch. "This is really nice." Samantha's cheeks flushed. She stared at him like a deer in the headlights as Marvin, Courtney, and Dean walked into camp. Carrying their cleaned kills and tools, Courtney scurried past them to her grandparent's trailer. Aaliyah scrambled to her feet and followed, chatting away.

Keisha waited until the kids passed and kept her cool. "We're just blowing off steam, Marvin. I know he's your son and it's not easy to hear, but it's harmless."

"After all, you didn't _have_ to listen," Peggy added.

Dean elbowed Marvin and chuckled. "Puts a new meaning on the 'gaggle of hens' saying, don't it?"

Unamused by Dean's jab, Marvin shook his head. "Ben busts his butt for you people, and this is how you talk about him as soon as his back is turned."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wallace!" Samantha blurted. "I'm so grateful for everything you and Ben have done for me, really, I – "

Peggy interjected, "Would you shut up? We did nothing wrong."

"I'm with Peggy," said Keisha. "Don't turn this into something it's not. We're all glad Ben's in charge."

"You have a funny way of showing it." Marvin stormed off to the Wallace trailer, slamming the door on his way in.

"Speak of the devil," Dean mumbled.

Ben trudged into camp with Kate hanging off his arm. Something about her looked off, but Peggy couldn't quite put her finger on it. Aside from the fact that she looked as though she'd been homeless for the past year, anyway. Ben hurried through camp and avoided making eye contact. For whatever reason, he'd given his jacket to Kate and now his arms had a pinkish tint to them.

Samantha rose from the table and scrambled alongside Ben. "Are you – is she okay?"

Ben impatiently skirted around her. "She's fine."

"Do you need anything? Water, a snack?" Samantha's concerned questions were met with silence from Kate.

Ben's eyes widened when Kate suddenly detached from him and walked the rest of the way herself. Just as she reached the trailer, the door popped open, and Marvin stood in the doorway. Kate pushed past him and without a word, Marvin snapped the door closed again. Turning to Samantha, Ben worriedly ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "She's just a little dehydrated. She'll feel better after she gets some water and food in her."

"Dehydrated?" Keisha asked doubtfully. "She looks – "

"Drop it, okay?" Ben's tone left no room for further discussion. "Samantha, will you get me a couple bottles of water?"

"Of course." Samantha darted off towards the camp's fourth and final trailer. It mostly stored food, but also medical supplies and anything else best not left outside.

"Will do." Ben trudged up the steps and entered his trailer, leaving the camp in surprised silence. Peggy felt a surge of worry. Whether it was for herself or Kate, she wasn't sure.

Samantha returned to the picnic table after handing the water bottles off to Marvin. "Kind of creepy the way she was just staring off into space," she commented.

Keisha took the deck of cards and started dealing them out. "Well, I wouldn't worry about her too much. I'm sure Ben knows what he's talking about."

"Why?" Peggy asked, sniggering. "You guys go ahead without me. If I don't get those damn birds cooked I'll never hear the end of it."

Just as she was about to stand up, Dean cleared his throat. "You know..." He fidgeted with the zippers on his camouflage vest, gaze firmly on the ground.

"If you've got something to say then let's hear it." Peggy crossed her arms. _God_ how she hated when he dragged things out like this.

Dean opened his mouth to say something then seemed to think better of it. He pressed his lips together and shook his head fervently. "Oh, never mind," he said. "I forgot what I was going to say."

Peggy drummed her fingers on the table. There was something he wasn't saying, that much was obvious. Maybe not to the others, but she'd been married to the man for forty-three years. She knew him inside and out, she knew all his quirks and nervous habits. _Be damned if you're going to keep something else from me, old man._

Keisha and Samantha jumped as Peggy slammed her hands against the table and stood up.

"What are you doing?" Keisha asked, her tone sounding a little fearful.

Peggy didn't give her an answer. Instead, she charged straight to their trailer and thrust the door open. Dean stood by the door with the sack of birds in hand. He gave his wife a questioning look, which she ignored. Courtney and Aaliyah were sitting at the table with a coloring book between them. Their conversation had halted as soon as Peggy entered. They stared at Peggy, and jumped when she barked, "_Out_!" Courtney rushed outside, Aaliyah close on her heels.

No sooner than the door latched, Dean sighed. "Alright, what do you want?"

"I want to know what you're hiding from me," Peggy retorted, pointing a thick finger at his bewildered face. "You were standing out there – "

Dean threw the birds on the countertop and slammed his fist down beside them, causing the whole wall to rattle. "Enough!"

Peggy was silenced for a few moments, but her fury quickly returned with a vengeance. "You think that scares me?"

"I'm not trying to scare you," Dean answered, his shoulders sagging as he deflated. He suddenly looked even older than he actually was. "I'm tired, Peggy."

"We're all tired," Peggy said, throwing her hands in the air. "We're all praying for the day we can all go back to our old lives. Thanks to you, I will _never_ be able to do that."

Dean closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "You're gonna keep blaming me for what happened until it kills me. If you want to stick your head in the sand, that is your right, but I'm sick and tired of you."

"The feeling is mutual," Peggy retorted. They glared at one another in silence for a few long, tense moments before Peggy spat, "You can't even say it."

"I didn't want to do it, and that's the last time I'm ever going to say about any of it," Dean said. "I may not be able to get a formal divorce from you, but I can break it off."

"You think I care what you do?" Peggy laughed humorlessly. "I don't. Except we're stuck together in this trailer and have a granddaughter to think about."

"I'm gonna talk to Ben about sleeping in the dining trailer," Dean replied. "And Courtney's a big girl, we'll tell her the truth."

"Which is?"

"You and I just don't understand each other any more," he said.

All Peggy felt was relief. Then, her eyes narrowed. "That's still not what you were ho-humming about outside. I know it's not."

Dean's mouth fell open, seemingly not expecting Peggy to change the route of their conversation so quickly. "I have my suspicions that Kate's not just dehydrated. I heard her talking to Ben on the radio and she sounded bonkers."

"What else would it be?'

"I don't know. That's why I didn't want to say anything." He sighed. "So, there you have it. That's what you were abusing me over. Can I go now, madame?" Peggy's only response was a smoldering glare, where if looks could kill her husband would've dropped dead before her very eyes. Dean began muttering under his breath as he went out the door.

_Good riddance_.

* * *

Marvin paced back and forth. He'd been doing this so long Ben was surprised he hadn't worn a path in the already threadbare carpet of the trailer's kitchen. "How could we forget?" He demanded, knotting his fingers in his gray, overgrown crew cut. "Why wouldn't she tell us her pills were running out?"

"Those are both million dollar questions," Ben answered. He'd found Kate's empty pill bottle nearly half an hour ago and had been turning it over in his hands ever since. She hadn't even tried to hide it. She kept her pills in the nightstand in the tiny sleeping quarters at the back of the trailer. Every night, Ben had slept with his head a foot away from something that he should've never missed to begin with.

"What are we gonna do?" Marvin slid into the dinette booth across from Ben and buried his face in his hands. "We can't keep her locked in here twenty-four-seven, but if we don't, who knows where she'll wander off to next time or what else she'll get up to."

"There's not going to be a next time," Ben said. The fact that his father expected anything else cemented his certainty in what he had to do. Marvin seemed to already know where this was heading and faced his son with an increasingly dubious expression. "I'm going to go find her some more pills tonight."

"No way." Marvin flew from the booth and returned to pacing, now shaking his head with every step. "No, no, no, _hell_ no," he said, cutting Ben a pained look out the corner of his eye. "You are not leaving this camp tonight."

Ben couldn't help the indignant snort that flew out. No matter how old he got, being told what to do only made him dig his heels in more - his father of all people should've realized that. "Dad, I'm forty one years old. I'm not asking for permission here."

"Just stop, you're not thinking clearly." Sighing, Marvin came to rest against the counter, propping himself on his elbows. "We just need to take a few days, think over our options. Rushing out of camp alone, hours from dark, is not the answer here."

"We don't have any options," Ben said.

"Fine." Marvin shrugged, but his face was still set into a mask of stubbornness. "But if you're going out there, I'm going with you."

"No." Ben's mind was almost overwhelmed with flashes of the last time he and his father had been in the city together, when Marvin narrowly avoided getting chomped on the arm by a walker. "I told you before, I need you here when I'm not. Especially now, one of us has to be here for Kate."

Marvin muttered something unintelligible under his breath. For a few minutes neither of them moved or spoke, then Marvin broke the silence by slamming his fist on the counter. One of the many pictures Kate had adorned the walls with fell off and tumbled onto the floor. Marvin snatched it back up and scoffed, then flipped it over so Ben could read the ornate lettering: _don't go away mad, just go away. _"You think that's some kind of sign?" He asked dryly.

"I'll be in and out of Fairbanks by morning," Ben said. "All you have to do is keep Kate from wandering off. And don't tell the others anything. I don't know how they'll react."

Marvin sniggered and crossed his arms. "Oh, well if that's all…"

"Dad, _please_." Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the sensation of heat rising up his neck.

Marvin exhaled heavily and after a moment of hesitation, returned to his seat at the dinette booth. "Son, I'm sorry. I don't mean to act like an ass. I just don't want you jumping into a decision that could cost you your life. Where will Kate be then?"

"I don't think you get it," Ben said, his voice hardly more than a grumble. "She has schizophrenia. Do you even comprehend how bad this could get?"

A deep, thunderous sound boomed in the distance. The windows rattled in their frames, and a wave of vibrations ran up Ben's legs. He and Marvin shared a brief, wide-eyed glance with one another, then they were both on their feet. Ben led the way outside, thrusting the door open. He skipped two out of the three steps to the ground and ran into the clearing.

Dean hurried from his trailer and joined Clarence and Jake in the shade of the spruce trees. Samantha, Peggy, Lauren, and Keisha sat at the picnic table, their plates forgotten as Samantha pointed frantically towards the sky. She and Keisha were loudly talking over one another, and Ben thought he caught the word 'explosion'. He moved so he could see where they were pointing around the trees.

Tall, black plumes of smoke billowed high into the sky along the horizon. Ben swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly as dry as the desert. He was no expert on smoke, but he knew whatever this was had to be more than a simple house fire. Whether it was indeed an explosion or something natural like a wildfire, not knowing the exact source was quickly draining Ben's confidence. Driving into Fairbanks alone was one thing when all he had to worry about was walkers, but walkers _and_ some mysterious explosion...

"Still going out there?"

"Dad, not now." Ben wasn't sure when his father had came to stand beside him, but his quiet voice asking the one question he didn't want to think about was almost enough to send him over the edge.

The narrow window of the sleeping quarters popped open. Kate leaned out, fighting against the breeze to keep her hair out of her face. She asked, "Any ideas as to what the hell that was?" Despite the situation, Ben smiled. _That_ was his Kate. Everything about her was different from the way she'd been acting before. Her tone bordered on sarcastic, and her face was surprisingly relaxed, even as she eyed the ever-rising tower of smoke.

"Maybe it was military," Samantha suggested hopefully, looking. "Anyone remember the rumors that big cities were getting napalmed?"

Though there was no joy in it, Clarence chuckled. "Honey, Fairbanks isn't a big city and that certainly wasn't napalm."

"How do you know?" Lauren asked.

"Ever heard of Operation Rolling Thunder?"

Courtney stepped forward from where she'd been leaning against her trailer, face alight with wonder. "Were you there? My brother was a war buff, and he talked about that all the time."

"Yeah," Clarence replied, stiffly crossing his arms. "Yeah, I was. And I can assure you, whatever that is has nothing to do with napalm."

"Well, I'm pretty concerned by it," Kate yawned. She tucked a wild lock of hair behind her ear. "I can't think of any situation where an explosion is a good thing."

Jake anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. "Kind of makes me worried about future runs," he said, glancing nervously at Lauren.

"No kidding. Good thing it'll be a week or two before we have to go out again," Lauren agreed. She was one of the youngest adults of the group, which Ben thought was both a blessing and a curse. She had more energy and better eyesight than him, but not nearly enough life experience or wisdom. She motioned to the plates of half-eaten doves around them and pressed her lips together tightly. "As long as we don't hunt the game around here to extinction, that is."

Ben could practically feel Marvin staring a hole in him, but he refused to turn around and discuss anything with him. Once his father had his mind made up about something, there was no reasoning with him, and Ben wasn't in the mood to argue in circles. Mustering as much composure as he could, he said, "Let's not think of it as a good thing or a bad thing. Chances are it'll never affect us one way or the other."

"It's kind of hard to ignore," Keisha said, warily watching the plume as it seemed to grow even more. She pulled Aaliyah over to her as if the smoke was going to swoop down and take her daughter.

Returning to her breakfast, Peggy prodded a piece of dove back and forth with her fork. "There's plenty of crap around here to focus on. We might as well do that."

"Don't you think we should investigate?" Samantha questioned, looking to Ben with her eyes wide.

"Nope," he replied curtly. "Peggy is right. Get on with your lives."

"Don't you mean _we_ should investigate, Samantha?" Jake asked wryly, motioning to himself and Lauren.

Samantha's cheeks went beet red. "Um…I didn't mean that like it sounded. It's just th-that you two know how to handle yourselves in the city."

"Seems like we're the only ones."

"Jake, that's enough," Lauren warned, brows knitted together. She was a head shorter than her six-foot roommate but not nearly as brawny. Her skinny jeans were tucked into brown combat boots, and her bomber jacket was two sizes too large and terribly faded.

"Everyone's here," Jake countered, motioning towards the group. "What better time to talk about the division of labor?"

"What about it?" Ben demanded. His patience for Jake had been wearing thin for a while. He thought the kid had an ego, and despite being nearly thirty, had even less wisdom than Lauren.

Whether Jake was proud or embarrassed to have all eyes on him, Ben couldn't tell. He squared his shoulders and held his head high. "Sometimes Clarence comes along, but for the most part it's just me and Lauren scavenging. We risk our lives to get the things this group needs to survive, then we come back and everyone else is living like we're in summer camp. Lauren's the only woman around here that does anything."

"Excuse me?" Peggy shouted over the top everyone else's objections. "You might think you're hot shit because you carry a gun and brought us back some toothpaste, but don't you worry about the rest of us pulling our weight."

Jake's crooked grin expanded to a laugh. "You know, it's ironic _you're_ the most offended one. How was the gin tournament this morning?"

"I'll give you something to laugh about." Peggy shot to her feet, but Samantha pulled her back down.

"Oh, I'm petrified," Jake sneered. "Maybe you were a badass back in the day, but acting like this at your age is just pathetic."

"Okay," Ben said, raising his voice. "Enough."

Peggy laughed callously. "Come over here and see if I'm acting."

Jake's mouth cocked to the side in a crooked grin. He said, "I'll knock you on your fat ass."

At that, Dean stormed forward, tearing past the attempts to stop him, until he'd backed Jake against a tree. "Listen here, if you ever threaten my wife again, there'll be nothing left of you but a grease stain."

"Stop!" Ben hollered, slamming his fist against the side of the nearest trailer. It amazed him how quickly things could spiral out of control when scared, hungry people started arguing. "Believe me when I say I'll let you know if I think someone's not pulling their weight. Until then, unless you have something constructive to say, you can keep this shit to yourselves."

Jake jerked away from Dean, gaze firmly on his shoes. He cleared his throat. "I shouldn't have brought it up in front of everyone. Sorry."

Ben didn't know if Jake genuinely regretted causing such a mess, or he was just tucking his tail between his legs because he didn't win. In any case, Ben was over it. There were more important things he had to focus on. Taking a deep breath to get his flaring temper under control, Ben pushed down his anger just enough so he could act like he really cared about anything besides Kate. "As difficult as the smoke is to ignore, we need to carry on," he said. "Business as usual. Focus on laundry, shooting practice, play bingo. I don't really care."

Slowly but surely, the crowd dispersed. Samantha took guard atop the Peterson's trailer, Marvin went back inside to join Kate, and Jake stormed off to his and Lauren's trailer. Ben was left standing alone on the sidelines, his heart lower than ever. At least one member of the group had made it perfectly clear how he felt about those who didn't - or couldn't - pull their weight, hadn't he?

Ben's gaze settled on the window Kate had popped out of earlier. How much of earlier did she remember? The few times she had shown symptoms before, she'd never talked about it. Maybe when her schizophrenia flared up, she was like a walker, unaware of her actions. Ben hoped that was the case. At least then he could know she wasn't suffering, trapped in some mental prison.

"Hey, Ben, you got a minute?" Clarence strolled towards Ben, hands tucked in his pockets of his army green cargo pants.

Ben resisted the urge to roll his eyes. There was nothing more he wanted to do than go inside and come up with a plan to help his wife, but it seemed he was going to be prevented from doing so at every turn. He nodded to Clarence, hoping he'd cleared his face of any irritation. "Sure, what do you need?" he asked.

"You said you put down a walker in the scrapyard earlier. I thought we oughta make sure no more have wandered down," Clarence said. Then, he shrugged and added seemingly as an afterthought, "Besides, it'll give us a chance to talk."

_Oh, great. Just what I need._ "Alright," Ben said. Ever since the world ended Ben was the boss full time, with shifts that never ended. He and Clarence walked to the ATV side by side, only for both of them to hesitate once they reached it. They eyed the driver's seat then each other, until Ben finally walked onward and sat down. He waited until Clarence was buckled into the passenger side before he started the engine. He squinted against the sinking sun as he drove out of camp and onto the scrapyard path.

Once they were well out of earshot from the others, rumbling alongside the creek, Ben glanced to Clarence. He asked, "What's going on?"

"I think I contribute my fair share to this camp," Clarence began, voice raised over the grumbling over the motor. "Me and my family are the first ones you brought back here, and I appreciate that. Had you left us on the side of the road like everyone else, Lord only knows where we'd be."

"What are you getting at?" There was one little detail Ben had never told Clarence, and that was that helping him and his family was entirely Kate's idea. It wasn't his proudest moment, but had it been up to Ben, he would've driven right past them. By that point, the outbreak had just begun, and he was in survival mode. But Kate...she always had others' best interests first. Ben realized with a jolt that Clarence must've already answered him, and he'd been zoned out. "Sorry, what?" He inclined his head towards Clarence, as if the ATV was the reason he hadn't heard him.

"I've been left out quite a bit lately, and I don't care for it," Clarence repeated, nearly shouting. "Until Samantha brought me that radio Kate took like you asked her to, I hadn't heard anything about Kate being sick."

Ben's brows spiked up as he cut Clarence a questioning glance. So what if he hadn't personally delivered the message that his wife had taken the radio and wasn't feeling well? Wasn't that _their_ business?

Clarence blinked rapidly and shook his head. "Look, it's not just today that's bothering me. Just - slow down will you? I can't scream the whole time!"

Ben tapped the brakes and parked the ATV a few feet off the creek's bank. "Let's just get this over with now. If there's a walker in the scrapyard it can wait," he said.

"For the past few weeks, you've kinda just been doing your own thing," Clarence continued as if Ben hadn't spoken. "A few weeks ago, you decided the guns should be in Jake and Lauren's trailer. That rubbed me the wrong way for a couple reasons. Then they bring back Samantha, and you just let that girl take over guard duty. I mean, she's sweet, but I think she'd crap herself if anything actually happened. Why you let her tote a gun around camp is beyond me."

"I'm just trying to do what I think is best. What would you have me do with the guns, stick 'em in your tent with your eight-year-old? And Samantha, well...Dad hated guard duty, and I don't know what else she could do."

"See, that's the problem." Clarence waggled a finger in Ben's face. "You're just calling the shots."

"They're my shots to call," Ben retorted. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were bone white. "But you're right," he amended quickly, as Clarence had stiffened up and looked ready to ream him. Even if he didn't believe what he was saying, he'd discussed it for about as long as he cared to given the current circumstances. "I shouldn't cut you out entirely, since you _are_ helping me run this place. I'll try to keep that in mind."

"Okay." Clarence slowly sank back against the seat. "Keisha also wanted me to ask you what we're going to do with the weather getting so cold, but we can save that for later if you want."

Ben put the ATV back in gear and started towards the scrapyard, though much slower than they'd been going before. "Tell her I can't control the weather."

"Don't get attitude with me," Clarence snapped. "We do need to talk about it."

"Not today we don't," Ben said.

"Fine." Clarence grit his teeth together, the muscle in his jaw bulging. "Just one more thing then. Can you at least tell me the truth?"

"Excuse me?"

"At the risk of being rude...what's really going on with Kate? Based on what I heard from Dean and Samantha, dehydration sure as hell doesn't fit the bill."

Ben gnawed his bottom lip nervously. If people were already questioning his dehydration story, that wasn't good. He'd come up with it on a whim, to get Samantha to stop asking so many questions. Clarence was a married man, maybe he'd understand if Ben told him the truth. It would make things so much easier if he did, and it'd be good to have a second pair of eyes to watch out for Kate.

However, Ben wasn't certain it was worth the risk to tell Clarence anything about Kate's condition. He was still a survivalist at heart and nothing more, and if he saw Kate as a threat to his family, who knew what kind of steps he'd take? The shield Ben had started to let down shot right back up at that thought. He already knew what he had to do to make sure Kate was protected- tell _no one_.

"Dehydrated, low blood sugar, whatever." Ben kept his voice as nonchalant as he could. "You know how it is. You get busy sometimes and forget to eat or drink, especially as low as our supplies have been running."

Clarence's mustache twitched a second before he grinned. "Okay. If that's your story."

Ben sped up again. Leafless branches whipped his arms and face no matter how many times he tried to dodge them. Once they reached the scrapyard, he slowed the ATV and stopped just outside the fence. Clarence lead the way into the scrapyard, one hand on his holster. Ben trailed after him and didn't move past a few feet just inside. He stood back, arms crossed. No walkers lingered around the back fence, but Clarence walked the perimeter anyway.

Clarence stopped at the walker Ben had killed earlier and pointed at it before wrinkling his nose. "Damn that stinks. We need to burn it."

All of the walker's brain matter was dried against the surrounding dirt, while her decayed flesh had cooked in the sun all day. Countless flies buzzed around her remains, and for the first time, Ben found himself relating to a walker. Isolation was just part of his job before the outbreak. Mining seasons were full of it, with the camp's distance from the city and the tiny crew he managed.

Not many people wanted to befriend the boss. But these days, Ben felt more alone than he ever had in his life. Everyone either had a bone to pick, a demand to make, or were disappointed with him for not being their idea of a leader. And now, the one person he had left, his rock for the past twenty years, was out of her mind, all because of him.

* * *

Peggy plunged her hands into the lukewarm water within the sink, searching between the plates and silverware until she located the sponge. She'd been gunning for paper plates and plastic utensils since the beginning but everyone was so happy to use actual dishes, they wouldn't go for it. Something about 'normality'. Peggy thought those people might feel differently if they were the ones standing on aching feet every night to wash the same damn ugly green plates.

The door squeaked open and Courtney took a step inside. She lingered by the counter for a moment, swaying back and forth, then walked to the other side of Peggy and lifted up a dish towel. She gave a small, sheepish smile. "Need a hand?"

"Sure." Peggy handed off the first washed and rinsed plate.

Courtney ran the towel over and over the plate, staring at it intently. She only set it down when Peggy had extended another for her to dry. "You guys don't have to hide things from me," she said, voice quiet and small.

Peggy rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. All of a sudden she was parenting a teenager, something she hadn't done since the late seventies. For all of their similarities there were a hundred ways Courtney and her mother were opposites. By this age, Melissa had known better than to interfere in her parent's affairs. "Let me guess, you noticed Grandpa coming in and out of here earlier."

"Heard you arguing, actually." Courtney finished drying the plate and set it on top of the other one, but she still wouldn't look up. She said, "I think _everyone_ heard you... but I only heard a little bit."

"You're fifteen now, so I guess you're old enough for the truth." Peggy yanked a dish out of the sink, sending some of the others clattering against each other and smashing against the metal sides. She scrubbed at nothing and was half surprised the sponge hadn't disintegrated yet.

"Okay," Courtney replied hesitantly. She'd finally chanced a look at her grandmother and now couldn't look away, her hazel eyes rounded and bordering on fearful.

"Your grandfather and I think it's best if we spend some time apart," Peggy said, practically spitting the word 'grandfather'. She ran the dish under lukewarm water, then shoved it at Courtney. "That's awfully difficult to do in a two-room trailer, so we're going to sleep separately for a while."

Courtney tentatively dried off the plate, never tearing her eyes away from Peggy. "Is this about Mom?"

"Of course it is," Peggy snapped.

"He had to do it. She would have turned."

Peggy's heart seemed to skip a beat. There was that word. _Turned_. Spoken with such certainty, as if anything about this fresh hell they'd been plunged into was actually known, as if there wasn't any doubt. Her teeth clamped down so hard against her tongue, she thought she'd bite it in half. She switched the faucet off before she'd even finished rinsing the next dish and dropped it back into the water. "What's the rule?" she questioned.

Courtney wrung the towel between her hands. Her mouth opened and closed without making a sound.

"WE DON'T TALK ABOUT IT," Peggy bellowed. She stormed forward and swept her arm through the stack of dried plates. They flew across the trailer and crashed into the wall, cracking into dozens of green chunks that flew every which way.

"Maybe I want to talk about it!" Courtney had pressed herself against the counters as much as she could, shrinking back from Peggy, but her voice nearly matched her grandmother's now. "That was my mom!"

"And you're okay that your grandfather blew her brains out," Peggy hissed. "What does that say about _you_?" Tears welled in Courtney's eyes. Her bottom lip quivered. Peggy scoffed. "Don't cry now or I'll give you something to cry for," she said. "If I talked to my grandma the way you talk to me, I'd have been backhanded into a past life. You should count your lucky stars I'm not that kind of person."

Courtney sniffled as tears streamed from her eyes, dripping off her jaw. Hands on her hips, Peggy moved towards her until they were less than a foot apart and spoke through gritted teeth. "I've tried to forgive him, I really have. But your grandfather is a murderer. He _murdered_ my girl, shot her right in the head." Peggy leaned down until they were nose to nose. Her voice was hardly above a whisper when she said, "He disgusts me, and _you_ disgust me for supporting him."

Courtney's breath increased to wheezing puffs until she'd broken down into sobs. She tore away from her grandmother and dashed out of the trailer, not even bothering to shut the door.


	2. Two: Life is the Traveler

Fort McAdams was supposed to be a sanctuary for the state of Alaska. _The_ sanctuary, in fact. It was the only place Jerome, Rachel, and Emma Dufour had known since the start of the outbreak, and now it was gone. Just like that, Jerome and his family were thrust into the terrifying shell of a place they had once called home. All he remembered from the past three hours were flashes of terrible things he knew would stay with him forever. Gunfire, screaming, running, and worst of all, stabbing someone in order to escape.

Jerome hadn't known what to do so he'd just kept driving. They had no other plan. Fort McAdams was supposed to be their last stop until things went back to normal. As long as they were going faster than the biters, they were safe, or at least it felt that way. But now the needle in the gas gauge was edging towards _E_, so Jerome had no choice but to pull into an abandoned gas station on the outskirts of Fairbanks.

Nobody had said a word for at least an hour, and this theme continued for a few more minutes as the family of three eyed the surroundings outside their windows. Two bodies wrapped in bloodstained sheets were propped up against the building. The gas station looked like every other building they had passed. Abandoned cars, withering weeds that had become overgrown during the last leg of summer, and long-forgotten litter dotting the parking lot, busted windows.

Jerome forced a smile as he looked at his wife. "Why don't you fill up the tank while I look around inside and see if there's anything to eat?"

"Okay, honey. Be careful." Rachel reached over from the passenger seat and laid a hand on his arm. She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face their daughter in the back. "You stay right by my side." The ten-year-old only nodded, causing her parents to share a look of concern. Rachel had remarked more than once how much Emma was like her father. Sure, they had the same brunette hair and dark eyes to match, but their similarities were more than skin deep. Of all the things she could learn from him, Jerome had accidentally taught her to bottle things up. She'd gotten very good at that, never letting on that she was sad or angry.

"How are you holding up, my chérie?" Jerome asked. He'd moved to the United States from France at thirteen and spent many years in the Chicago suburbs before moving to Alaska, yet his accent never faded. Most of the time, he forgot he had one, but the little French phrases and nicknames from his childhood always reminded him of home, which was another life now more than ever.

"Fine," Emma answered. "I guess I'm a little hungry."

"I'm sure I'll find something," he said, flashing her one more smile before hopping out of the Humvee. Alaska was on the edge of autumn and as such, the heavily wooded area surrounding them was a mixture of golds, reds, and oranges. Somehow nature seemed more beautiful than ever, and Jerome couldn't help but admire the scenery as he walked towards the gas station. However, as he neared the doors, dread crept over him. None of them had eaten in close to a day. The Fort cut them back to two meals a day, and then _whatever_ had happened was before breakfast. All he wanted was to get some food in his wife and daughter's bellies, but he doubted there was even a candy bar left untouched.

Something rustled inside the darkened building. Jerome was feet away from entering and halted, already knowing what was coming. The putrid stench of death hit him before he saw them. Jerome stuffed his nose into the crook of his arm and hurried backwards as two biters stumbled into sight, trudging eagerly over the shattered glass. "Get in the Hummer," Jerome called. Rachel dropped the pump and flew around to the passenger side of the Humvee with Emma close behind.

Jerome wracked his brain for a way to deal with the biters. He'd made it this far without killing them, but he knew it was time to stop running. He needed food and fuel for his family, and these damn bags of skin weren't going to stop him from getting it. All he had was the Ka-Bar knife he'd managed to sneak into the Fort and escape with, but he didn't think it was smart to get that close. The guards at Fort McAdams had usually used guns, anyway.

The faster of the two biters moaned hungrily, wild eyes locked onto Jerome. Its head lolled onto its shoulder, attached only by skin. Jerome leapt backwards as it lunged towards him. The other biter closed in, gnarled hands outstretched. "Papa!" Emma shrieked, garnering the attention of the nearly-headless biter. Instead of going after Jerome, it stumbled over to the Humvee and pounded at the window.

Jerome's heart surged into his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run over there and tear it away from his family, but he knew he had to be smarter than that. He rushed to one of the abandoned cars and circled it, searching for an unlocked door. Much to his relief, the passenger side door opened first try. He pulled the glove box open and rifled through the maps and parking tickets. When it became clear there was no gun hiding in there, he climbed in far enough to search under the seats.

All he found there were fast food wrappers and more parking tickets. He quickly backed out of the car and away from the rapidly approaching female biter. He ran to the trunk of the car and popped it open with his knife, nearly melting in relief when he saw a crowbar inside. Trembling hands wrapped around the makeshift weapon, Jerome braced himself for a fight. Despite the adrenaline and terror coursing through him, Jerome froze as soon as the biter within striking distance. Those milky, blank eyes staring at him used to belong to a _person_. Someone's daughter, or spouse, or sister. By the looks of the mostly intact clothes, this biter was a person not all that long ago.

"I'm sorry," Jerome whispered, then swung the crowbar with all his might. He smacked the biter's skull with enough force to send the crowbar flying out of his hands and clanging across the cement, yet it only seemed to anger the walker. She snarled furiously and followed Jerome's every move as he dashed over and retrieved the crowbar. This time, he gripped it a little farther down the shaft when he swung. The impact stung his hands but did much more damage to his assailant. The biter's head cracked where he'd struck it. Blood splattered onto Jerome and everything around him as he swung again, and again, and again – until she finally fell to the ground, barely recognizable as human.

Across the lot, Rachel repeatedly thrust the driver's side door of the Hummer outward, smashing the creature against the gas pump. It was unphased and fought towards her every time she retracted the door, head flopping wildly. "Get away from them!" Jerome bellowed, even though he knew it would do no good. He darted over and used all the strength he had to drive the forked end of the crowbar into the back of its skull. The hungry moaning stopped abruptly. The biter faltered, then dropped to the ground. Rachel left the door hanging open as she fell against the seat, wheezing and sweeping stray hairs off her sweaty, pallid face. Emma was on the floor of the passenger seat with her arms wrapped around her knees, wide eyes flicking back and forth between her parents.

The crowbar slipped from Jerome's suddenly limp hands and clattered to the ground. His stomach turned at the blood covering his torso, way too dark to be from a living person, yet he'd just beat it out of _something_ that resembled a human. "Jesus Christ," he panted. Despite his efforts to compose himself, his eyes burned with tears, and his throat was growing tighter by the second. Rachel clambored from the vehicle and wrapped both arms around his middle, burying her face against his neck. Whatever had allowed him to hold himself together broke, and he had no control of the sobs that escaped him. He clung to Rachel, feeling that her presence was the only thing keeping him from slipping away.

Emma joined them after a while, pressing against her parents and wrapping an arm tightly around each. They hadn't had time for reality to sink in, or even to grieve what was not their past. Hundreds of thoughts soared through Jerome's frazzled mind, rendering him unable to focus on anything more than a few seconds. Everyone they'd ever known was probably dead. There was nowhere left to run to. Where were they going to go? What were they going to do about food, shelter, supplies, _survival_ in the long term? Did safety even exist? Was anybody working on a cure? What the hell were they going to do?

Jerome wasn't sure how long they stood there, but after he'd managed to calm down enough to exhale without weeping, he knew they had to get going.

After finding and devouring whatever snacks they found in the gas station, the Dufour family sat inside the Humvee. None of them looked forward to getting back on the road, but least of all Jerome. Decision making was not his forte, especially when their lives may depend on it. They'd spent the last few hours just trying to find food and fuel, but now it was time to think ahead. "So…" he began uncertainly, turning a questioning eye to his wife. "Where do you think we should go?"

Surprised by his question, Rachel blinked. "I thought it was clear we're going to my sister's."

"Who said that?" Jerome asked. "The only plan we've ever had is the Fort, we never talked about what would happen after." She didn't reply to this, just settled back against her seat and sighed.

"To tell you the truth, I don't think we could make it three hundred miles," Jerome said, regretting the bluntness of his words as soon as they slipped out. He hadn't meant to be so pessimistic in front of Emma, but Rachel's sister lived in Anchorage, and that was a whole lot of unknown territory to travel with next to no supplies.

"What other choice do we have?" Rachel demanded. She briskly tucked a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear, not moving her piercing glare for a second.

Jerome shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had a feeling he knew how Rachel would feel about the one and only idea he had. "Well, I was thinking the Mine," he began, and as expected, Rachel's face contorted in horror. "It's secluded, there's shelter and supplies…" he trailed off, knowing he didn't have to tell her the rest. She'd been to Red Fox Creek plenty. Jerome had worked there for the past three years on a gold mining crew, spending ample time working his tail off in the wilderness.

"The _Mine_?" Rachel repeated, her mouth agape. "That's your big idea?"

"I think it's perfect," he replied, growing a little defensive himself. "You know there's not going to be anyone else there, it isn't on a map. As long as we have a vehicle and can stock up on food, it could last us until this all blows over."

Around a mouthful of Bugles, Emma suggested, "Maybe everything is okay at the Fort now. We could go back."

Oh, the naivety of children. Jerome was somewhat relieved by Emma's proposition. At least he knew that the chaos hadn't traumatized her too much. "I don't think so," he answered, then, leaning closer to Rachel, lowered his voice so only she could hear. "If I thought we could make it to your sister I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I think the mine is all we've got."

"Maybe you're right." Not sounding at all satisfied, Rachel shrugged.

"Don't you know I'm always right?" Jerome's attempt to lighten the mood didn't do the job.

Rachel playfully swatted him on the shoulder. "Let's get going. We can scavenge a little bit and make it there before dark if we're lucky."

Jerome started the engine and rolled out, gravel and dust trailing behind him. After driving for about half an hour, they were officially in the city of Fairbanks. Buildings straight out of the gold rush era sat on either side of the abandoned streets. A few undead stood along the sidewalks here and there, but Jerome continued until they were out of sight.

Aside from the scenery, one nice thing about the apocalypse was being the only one on the road. Jerome made it to the shopping plaza in record time. Before, it would've taken another thirty minutes. He pulled up next to the privacy fence of the neighboring building, just far enough from the parking lot to see without being seen. Jerome counted _one, two, three, four, five, six_, _seven_ biters before he lost track.

"Damn," he sighed. Fairbanks Plaza was the one place he knew like the back of his hand. The whole family did. It was where they went whenever they needed or wanted to do anything. Without maps or GPS, he had no idea where to go next and driving in circles didn't seem like a wise choice. Though he'd lived in the area for most of his adult life, he liked to stick to the rural suburbs. Unfortunately, he doubted there would be anything even worth looking for out there.

"The shops look untouched," Rachel said. She pointed towards the far end of the plaza, where several shops sure to house survival gear stood in shockingly good condition. "If we can find a way around those biters, we might've hit the jackpot."

"How many of _them_ thought the same thing?" Something about the biters mesmerized Jerome. Unaware of his presence, they stumbled back and forth aimlessly. What went on in their heads when they weren't locked onto prey? Did they think? Was their humanity trapped inside there, like someone in a coma?

"I think it's worth a shot," Rachel insisted. "We can't afford to keep running. Just got to get this over with and get to the Mine." Her lips quirked when she mentioned the Mine, like the word left a foul taste in her mouth.

Unconvinced, Jerome fidgeted with his hands while he thought. On one hand, there was enough to loot in that mall to keep them stocked for a month. On the other, he wasn't sure it was worth their lives to get it.

"It should be easy enough to sneak around them," Rachel continued, her tone something like when Emma was little and had to be bribed to eat her dinner. "Besides, that crowbar seemed like a pretty good weapon."

Jerome groaned and slapped a hand to his head. Sure, the crowbar was a good weapon, but it was laying in a gas station parking lot twenty miles back. "You forgot the crowbar," Rachel deduced, huffing irritably.

Emma said, "What about your knife, papa?"

Jerome cringed at his child's suggestion. A ten-year-old should never have to assist her parents in figuring out how to defend themselves so they could loot a store. Nevertheless, she had given him an idea.

"Get the duct tape, Emma." Jerome reached into the side of his boot and retrieved the Ka-Bar. Its black blade glistened in the sunlight, blood from that morning dried brown. He gently opened the door and stepped a foot out.

Rachel gaped. "What are you doing?"

"_Shhh_!" He hissed. To his relief, none of the biters were even looking in their direction. He crept a few feet down the sidewalk to a tree and braced the knife against a branch just thick enough to serve as a spear. He sawed it from the tree in only a few seconds, then chopped the leafy end off before returning to his vehicle.

"Good idea," Rachel said.

Jerome took the duct tape from Emma's outstretched hand. Holding the stick between his knees, he lined up the knife at the end of it and wrapped duct tape around and around until he was certain it would hold. "Hopefully this will work."

Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt and found Emma's eyes in the rearview mirror. "You know the drill."

"Stay right by your side, I know," Emma sighed.

Jerome tapped his fingers nervously against the stick. "Noise seems to get them going. We need to move fast and quiet."

Rachel pointed somewhere a few feet beyond the Humvee. A cement retaining wall bordered either end of the parking lot. "If we crouch along that wall, I bet we can sneak right past them and go in through the back," she said.

"That'll work," Jerome agreed. They filed out of the car on their tiptoes, tensely shutting the doors before gathering on the sidewalk. Jerome took the lead, with Rachel and Emma right behind him. They crouched down and scurried over to the barrier. Jerome peeked over the top and saw the biters were still unaware, then continued. As they approached the end of the wall and the backlot of the building came into view, Jerome stopped.

A single biter stood a few feet from the door, its security guard uniform torn and tattered. A gun sat snugly in its holster, sunlight glinting off the steel. He would've preferred to find a way around him, but there came a point where running wasn't worth it anymore.

"You stay here while I take care of him," he whispered. Rachel nodded and pulled Emma closer. Jerome hurried forward and made it just past the corner of the building before the biter noticed him. Its teeth gnashed together as it desperately started towards Jerome. He thrust his makeshift spear right between the biter's eyes, only for the knife and duct tape to fold and fall to the ground. "Shit!" Jerome exclaimed, scrambling away from the biter's grabbing hands.

"They heard you," Rachel said, voice taut with barely contained panic. "They're coming!"

The moans and snarls were getting louder. He said a silent prayer as he ran around the security guard and retrieved his knife. He pushed the stick against the biter's chest until it was backed against the wall of the building. Barely evading the snapping teeth, Jerome lunged forward and drove the knife into its skull. Just as the body hit the ground, five biters came around the corner of the building.

"Come on!" Jerome called to his family. He snatched the revolver out of the security guard's holster and hurried to the door. When Rachel and Emma joined him, they rushed inside together. Around them was nothing but shelves and cardboard boxes. They'd stumbled into the storage room of a clothing shop, by the looks of it. The only source of light came from the hopper windows at either end of the small room. Before they even had time to catch their breath, the biters were slamming against the door. Rachel jumped into action and barricaded it with one of the shelves. This did little to help, and the shelf rocked back and forth as the door creaked against the pressure.

"They just don't stop," Rachel said. "That shelf isn't going to hold for long, we need to go."

Jerome nodded, giving the gun in his hands a nervous once over. He'd only ever used a gun once in his life, and that was on a hunting excursion when he was fourteen years old. He found the button that opened the chamber and was relieved to see four bullets.

"Stay behind me," he said. He walked to a set of double doors and tried to peek through the windows. Beyond them was almost nothing but darkness, a few spots of sunlight striping the abyss. Jerome slowly pushed one of the doors open and was thankful to hear silence. They continued through the shop, not stopping to scavenge since there was nothing but clothes and accessories around.

As they passed the register and neared the main entrance, Rachel walked over to a map of the mall near the door. She found the 'you are here' dot and tapped a store two squares down. "Bass Pro Shops. I bet there will be some stuff we can use there."

"Definitely." Jerome cracked the door open just enough to see out the parking lot. To his relief, not a single biter was in sight. He motioned for Rachel and Emma to follow and led the way outside, keeping his back against the building as they hurried down the sidewalk. They passed another clothing store before reaching their goal in the form of a large, cabin-like building labelled _Outdoor World_. Jerome stepped up to one of the front windows and peered inside. Though it was dark, he didn't see any movement inside, so he tentatively led the way in.

At first, they just wandered past boats and clothing, then Jerome saw it: the hunting and firearms section. Dozens of guns inside glass cases, shelves upon shelves of ammunition, racks of rifles, and hunting knives hanging from hooks. All of it untouched. Jerome and Rachel shared a look of disbelief before they rushed forward. Rachel moved to a display of outdoor backpacks and tossed one to Jerome before grabbing one for herself. "This is amazing," she said, smiling broadly.

"Let's take only what we need," Jerome said. "I feel guilty enough we can't pay for anything."

"Jerome," Rachel said, her tone near scolding. "Screw that. No one's going to come in here and arrest us, I promise."

"I know that, but shouldn't we leave something for other people?"

"We can't take it all anyway, there's too much." Rachel perused the aisle, stopping at a section of ammunition. "We should take everything we can carry."

"Papa look what I found." Emma appeared at the end of a gun display holding two heavy duty flashlights. She pushed the buttons and they both turned on, bright LED beams slicing through the darkness.

Jerome couldn't help but smile. He held the bag open. "Nice find, my chérie! Toss 'em in."

Rachel had moved to a long glass gun case, staring longingly at the firearms within. "Do you think it'll make too much noise if I bust it?"

"As far as we are into the store, I don't think so," Jerome said. Rachel took a rifle from a nearby rack and only slammed the butt against the case twice before the glass shattered. Jerome came and helped her clear the rest of the glass. Together, they popped the trigger-guards off their selected pistols and sent Emma to find the corresponding ammo.

Once both of their bags were weighed down with their loot and Jerome had snagged a couple rifles, he led the way to the next section. "There has to be food somewhere in this place," he commented, peering around for anything besides clothing and fishing equipment. They wandered down a few more aisles before coming across a food display. It was mostly snacks and junk food but Jerome filled Emma's backpack anyway.

"Not a bad haul," Jerome said. As he, Rachel, and Emma neared the front of the store, the mood was considerably lighter than when they'd entered. Just as Jerome was about to push the door open, he froze at the sound of distant gunfire. His brows furrowed deeply. "Do you think – " his sentence was cut short by an explosion unlike anything Jerome had ever experienced. The blast boomed against his chest and sent all three of them flying to the ground. Glass rained down as every window in the building blew inward.

Jerome forced his stinging, watering eyes open. Rachel and Emma were lying a few feet away, slowly getting to their feet. Rachel's eyes locked with his. Her lips moved, but Jerome couldn't make out any words over the shrill ringing in his ears. He stood and willed his legs not to buckle, trying to figure what the hell had just happened.

Rachel shoved her hand in his face and snapped her fingers. When they eyes locked, she pointed outside, and the ringing subsided just as she screamed, "Run!" A dozen or more biters surged through the dust and debris. Still dazed, Jerome fumbled to get the revolver from his waistband. His hand shook when he tried to line up the leading biter in his sights. He fired twice, both rounds missing the mark.

"Just go, we can outrun them!" Rachel yelled. Glass crunched under their feet as the family ran out through the open frames that used to be doors. The formerly pristine plaza resembled a warzone. The windows of every neighboring shop laid shattered on the ground, biters stumbling out from the holes. Splinters of wood and other building materials fell around them. As Jerome managed to shoot a nearing biter in the chest, he peered through the haze to find the source of squealing tires. A short school bus sped across the street and into the parking lot, swerving around biters and debris. Jerome stepped in front of Emma as the bus slid to a halt mere feet from them.

The doors popped open. A young man sat in the driver's seat. "Get in!" he hollered. The biters were too close for them to run, and Jerome had no time to consider anything else. He dragged Emma along with him onto the bus. The stranger pressed a button and snapped the doors shut as soon as Rachel was inside. Biters pounded against the door and began to climb onto the hood.

"Hang on," the man said. He shifted gears and stomped the pedal. Jerome fell to the floor with his wife and daughter as the bus lurched forward. Several of the biters were plowed down, sickening crunches replacing their groans.

Just as Jerome managed to get himself to his knees, a woman stomped forward from the back of the bus. She shoved the muzzle of a pistol against his temple. "Move again, and I'll blow your brains out," she spat from between clenched teeth. Jerome didn't dare move a muscle. This woman was not messing around. That much was clear from the way she looked at him, fury and distrust shining in her eyes. Her black, unkempt hair fell around her face and gave her the appearance of some wild woman.

"Carmen, stop it," the driver groaned.

Rachel gingerly raised her hands in surrender. "We don't want to - "

"Bitch, did I ask for your opinion?" Carmen jammed the gun against his head.

"Leave my dad alone!" Emma said, right before bursting into tears. She pressed close to her mother's side.

"God dammit," the driver sighed. He stopped the bus right in the middle of the road and stomped over to their captor, hand outstretched expectantly. "Come on, I warned you. Give it."

Carmen made no move to hand the gun over. "I told you not to help them," she barked, spraying Jerome with spittle.

"And I told you to stop it," he replied. "You're scaring the kids."

Carmen grudgingly shoved the gun into his hand. She stormed back to her seat at the end of the bus and plopped down beside a little boy. He was no more than four or five years old and sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. Tears welled in his eyes but did not overflow. The man slid the gun onto the dashboard then extended a hand to Jerome.

"I'm sorry about her." Jerome allowed the stranger to pull him to his feet. The handguns, ammo, and flashlights in his bag had squashed all feeling out of shoulders. Unable to take it anymore, he shrugged it off and set it in the closest seat. The man leaned down face-level with Emma, ignoring the way Rachel pulled her a step backwards. "You don't have to be scared, okay? I didn't help you just to let my sister hurt you."

Rachel glared at him and guided Emma to the nearest seat. "I sincerely hope not," she said.

He sighed, shifting awkwardly. "Let's start over. My name is Brandon Woods. That's my sister, Carmen, and my son, Adrian."

Jerome always tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Although the alternative was worse, Carmen's actions combined with the 'lights are on but nobody's home' look in her eyes almost made him wish they'd never got on the bus. After a moment of hesitation, he shook Brandon's outstretched hand. "I'm Jerome Dufour," he said, finding his voice surprisingly weak. "This is my wife, Rachel, and our daughter Emma."

"Nice to meet you," Brandon replied cheerfully. "What's that accent?"

"Oh, I'm French," Jerome said, surprised Brandon would ask about it just then. "I've lived in the U.S. longer than I haven't, but I guess the accent's for life."

"That's cool," said Brandon, nodding. "My mom was a Filipino immigrant."

Carmen called, "Are we gonna make a family tree, or would you like to get us away from those walkers?" The remaining parking lot biters ambled towards them. They weren't close enough to worry Jerome, but he just wanted to get away from that god-forsaken plaza before anything else happened.

"Right." Brandon returned to the driver's seat. He had a red bandanna tied around his head to contain his shoulder-length black hair. "Make yourselves comfortable," he said, pulling the gun from the dashboard and sticking it somewhere inside his denim jacket.

Jerome couldn't look away when Brandon turned on the window wipers. Guts, blood, and God knows what else smeared back and forth. Some chunks fell off while others just seemed to only get ground in. His gaze moved from the mess to the biters in the parking lot, now a few yards behind them. Some of the ones that had been crushed during their escape laid in piles. He wasn't able to tear his eyes away until Brandon put the vehicle back in gear and drove on.

Emma seemed to have calmed down just as quickly as she'd been upset. She was seated across the aisle from her father, digging around in a backpack. "Want some jerky, Papa?"

"Yes, please." Jerome caught the pack she tossed him and tore it open. The delectable smell of meat flooded his senses, waking his growling stomach.

No sooner than Rachel sat down beside him, she gasped. "Your arm!"

Jerome looked down to see the sleeve of his left arm saturated with blood. Panic surged through him as he dropped the jerky and fumbled to pull up the sleeve, mind racing for any moment where he could've been bitten. He winced as the cloth scraped over the wound, realizing that was the first time he'd felt any pain. A gash lay beneath, whelped and bloody. Shards of glass embedded in his skin twinkled like glitter. Jerome deflated against the seat, grateful it wasn't a bite.

"What's going on?" Brandon asked, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

"Jerome's got a pretty bad cut from the glass," Rachel said, hands hovering over his arm. "Do you have any tweezers?"

Carmen rushed forward and peered over the seat, so close her breath brushed Jerome's hair. "It is a cut," she confirmed.

"No tweezers, sorry." Brandon sighed. "All of our first aid stuff got used up a while ago."

"We've got bigger things to worry about right now." Jerome gently pushed away his wife's prodding hands and went back to his jerky, taking extra care not to bump his arm. "Does anyone know what that was back there?"

No one answered for a few moments, until Brandon said, "Gas explosion? That's the only thing I can think of."

"Was that you shooting?" Rachel asked. "We heard gunfire right before the explosion."

"Yeah, a couple walkers jumped out at me," he answered glumly. "But I don't think we're what caused it, because you guys look a lot worse off than us."

Jerome choked down a dry mouthful of jerky. "How did you know we were there?"

"We were raiding the apartment building across the street. I was upstairs when I saw you guys drive up," said Brandon. "We were just about to head out when everything happened."

Carmen sniggered. She leaned further against their seat. "My good Samaritan little brother couldn't mind his own business."

"Well...I'm glad," Rachel said, warily side-eying Carmen. "You wouldn't believe the day we've had."

"Are you guys staying somewhere around here?" Brandon asked. "I can drop you off if it's not far."

"Uh..." Rachel shared a hesitant look with Jerome. "Not really."

"No? Where are you from then?" Brandon swerved around a walker in the road, everyone leaning with the motion.

Jerome said, "We were at the refugee center, Fort McAdams. Someone came in and told us we had to leave, then someone started shooting. It was all downhill from there." Letting strangers know how vulnerable they were didn't seem wise, yet it felt wrong to lie to a person that just saved his family's lives. Even so, they didn't have to know all the details.

"No shit? Oh man." Brandon ran a hand down his face, suddenly dispirited. "That's been our goal since the beginning. We came all the way from Palmer."

"_Your_ goal," Carmen corrected. "Guess it's a good thing we never made it there. I told you those places are doomed."

Brandon stayed quiet. He pulled the bus over and turned to face Jerome. His face was much gloomier than it had been minutes before. "To tell you the truth, we're just drifters. We do what we can and live out of this bus. If what you're saying about Fort McAdams is true...we don't really have a plan B. So, if there's somewhere you'd like to be dropped off, don't be shy."

"Hey, watch it," Carmen snapped. She gripped the seat until her knuckles went white. "I know we're on a bus but we aren't public transit."

"What do you want me to do, drop them off on the side of the road?"

"Sure, go ahead!"

"We actually have a plan B," Jerome interrupted their arguing and ignored the horrified, shocked glare Rachel was sending his way. "I was a miner, and I think our last site is perfect. That's where we were headed."

"A miner?" Brandon snorted. "I didn't know people still did that."

Jerome couldn't help but laugh. Mining had been his life for so long it was hard to imagine that some people still thought of it as pans and pickaxes. "Well, we do. Red Fox Creek is about thirty miles from here. It took me two hours to find it the first time."

Brandon anxiously ran a hand through the hair that wasn't contained within his bandana. "I'm sorry, but thirty miles is a long way…"

"Wait a minute," Carmen held her hand up. "This place sounds pretty good. Since my brother so graciously risked his life to save yours, I don't think it'd be too much to ask if - "

"We agree," Jerome interrupted. "You're welcome to stay with us if you like the place."

"Good call, Frenchie." Carmen slapped him on the shoulder and returned to her seat.

"You're a good guy," Brandon said. "I appreciate you giving us a chance after...you know. Not everyone has been so kind."

_If you know what I did to escape the Fort, you wouldn't think of me as kind._ Heat rushed up Jerome's neck at the thought. He mumbled a quick response before turning his attention to Rachel. She tentatively lifted his arm, studying the gash pensively. What hadn't been absorbed by his sleeve had dried on his arm, a bright scarlet color against his porcelain complexion. "Think I'll need stitches?"

"We should just focus on getting the glass out," she said. Jerome took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Being a clumsy man, this was the third time in his life he'd gotten glass into some part of his body. At least this time it wasn't his fault, but he didn't look forward to whatever makeshift solution Rachel had in mind.

"There has to be a pharmacy around here somewhere," said Brandon. "We should look for some more supplies anyway."

"You don't have to stop just because of me," Jerome replied, practically feeling Carmen bristle at the idea. "I'll be fine.

Brandon waved his hand dismissively. "Dude, it's nothing. We're used to going somewhere, getting what we need, and getting out. It hasn't killed us yet."

"You could get a pretty nasty infection if you don't take care of it," Rachel added.

Jerome decided to stop fighting it. As much as he hated being the center of attention, he also hated the thought of glass indefinitely embedded in his skin. He turned his attention to Rachel, noticing with a sinking feeling that she wasn't looking so hot herself. There were a few thin cuts along her cheek and a reddening patch along her arm that would surely turn into a bruise. "You got pretty banged up too," he said, running a calloused thumb along her injured cheek.

"I'll be fine after we're somewhere safe, and I get a good night's sleep," she said, patting his leg reassuringly.


	3. Three: Purgatory

The bus sped around town for the remainder of the morning. Since nobody knew the area very well, especially since they were constantly having to turn back thanks to car pile-ups and blocked roads, finding a pharmacy took much longer than expected. By the time Brandon found a small shopping center, they were on the edge of town and the sun was well into the sky.

Judging by the items littering the floor as Jerome, Rachel, and Emma walked inside the pharmacy, the building had been picked over several times. Jerome led the way, creeping forward one hand on the gun at his hip and the other across Emma's chest to keep her from rushing past him. He would have preferred to leave her somewhere safe, but there was no way he was going to leave her on the bus with Carmen. Even if she did seem devoted to watching her nephew, there was something feral about her that he didn't trust.

Behind the checkout counter, a single biter started at the sight of the living, snarling hungrily and staggering across the sun-dappled floor. The torn t-shirt it wore exposed a jagged, oozing bite wound. Jerome found he couldn't look directly at it for too long. This had been a teenage boy once, probably not long ago. His clothes were actually cleaner than Jerome's. "Stay back," he told Emma, pulling the revolver from his hip.

"Wait." Rachel put a hand on his wrist. "Let me do it."

"Are you sure?"

"You shouldn't have to do it every time." Her eyes flashed from her husband to the nearing biter. "Just give it here, he's getting closer."

Jerome handed her the gun, then took Emma by the shoulders and turned her to face the opposite direction. "Hands over your ears and eyes shut," he said, knowing faintly that this was foolish. She had already seen more gore than anybody should in a lifetime, and her innocence wouldn't be preserved for much longer...but he wasn't ready to give up. Rachel raised the gun and found the biter's head in her sights, but she hesitated. "Hurry," Jerome urged, his heart racing as he watched the biter come closer and closer.

Rachel pulled the trigger and flinched at the bang. Her bullet missed the mark, piercing the _t_ in _prescription_ on the back wall. Unphased by the shot, the biter continued forward, groans growing more desperate with each step that brought him closer to a meal. Rachel took a few steps back and tried again. This time, the bullet hit its mouth. A few teeth and most of his jaw fell to the floor with a _plop_, but it kept coming. One final shot and the biter dropped, dead for good. Brain matter trickled out of the new gap in his skull onto the tile, turning off-white to maroon. "Piece of cake." Rachel smiled, though the trembling of her hand as she handed the weapon back to Jerome told him otherwise.

The pharmacy's front doors burst open as Brandon barreled inside, stopping just in time to avoid plowing Rachel down."What the hell are you doing?" He demanded, scowling at the pistol in her hand.

"She put down a biter," Jerome answered, sharing a perplexed look with his wife. What were they supposed to do, slow dance with it?

"Maybe you didn't notice, dude, but gunshots are loud. Walkers come to noise like moths to a flame." Upon realizing he was raising his voice, Brandon backed down. "I'm not trying to be an ass, it's just...don't you have a knife?"

Rachel huffed, regarding Brandon with furrowed brows. "Do you really expect us to get that close to those things? If that works for you that's fine, but we have no intention of becoming food today."

Brandon ran a hand down his face. "Just hurry, please. We don't know what'll happen now." He was almost out the door when he turned back and added, "And tell my sister it was right on you, or you'll never hear the end of it."

"Got it." Rachel pursed her lips.

They continued through the shop and found most of the shelves either bare or with little more than makeup or lotion, things that were left behind in favor of necessities. While Jerome rummaged through a few random boxes of over the counter medications on the floor, Rachel came to his side. "Looks like this is the best we're going to find," she said, holding up a nail care kit and a smushed tube of triple antibiotic ointment.

"Going to do your nails later?" Jerome asked, smiling when she rolled her eyes.

"There are tweezers in here. And scissors, which might come in handy." They continued the search in silence for a few minutes. Emma had boosted herself onto the counter and sat swinging her legs, clutching a stuffed pig she had found. Rachel glanced at her over her shoulder then quietly said, "I think we need to talk before we get back on the bus."

"About what?" Jerome asked.

Rachel scoffed, planting her hands on her hips. "Things are moving pretty fast. Carmen had a gun to your head, and now we're going to be living together for God knows how long," she said. "We're going to be pretty isolated at Red Fox...I want to make sure you've thought this through."

"There weren't very many people in Alaska to begin with, but who knows how many are left now? I want to be on good terms with as many as I can." Jerome could tell by the way her jaw hardened that she didn't share his line of thinking. He reluctantly continued, "I think we've learned that there is _not_ strength in solidarity. If Brandon hadn't stuck his neck out for us, we would be dead."

"I know that," Rachel replied. "I just think we should try to stay one step ahead for a while. We barely know them."

Jerome had just opened his mouth to reply when he was interrupted by Carmen hollering from somewhere outside. "Hey, get out here!" They stuffed their finds into Jerome's backpack and hurried outside. Brandon jogged out from the market next door and gave his sister a questioning glare. Carmen stood near the front of her bus, pointing somewhere up the road. Her face was as blank as her voice was monotone. "Look at that," she said.

Jerome rushed past the trees that were blocking his view and came to a halting stop as soon as he saw what Carmen was pointing at. A hundred yards or less up the road, more biters than he'd ever seen trudged forward. There must have been dozens of them. Jerome's senses tunneled until their distant moans were the only things he heard and their ambling forms were the only things he saw. People of all sizes, shapes, ages, and races. From all different walks of life, undoubtedly. More appeared out of seemingly every space around. Windows from the businesses across the street, down the street, from around the pharmacy. Mothers, sisters, and daughters, fathers, brothers, and sons. In the end, they were all the same. They all wanted to sink their teeth into living flesh. To stop them, he'd have to kill them. When did that become a way of life?

"_Jerome_!"

Jerome flinched as Rachel yelling his name broke through. There was an urgency in her voice that indicated this wasn't the first time she tried to get his attention. He took in a shuddering breath when he realized the reason his chest hurt was because he had stopped breathing. At some point, Emma had gotten on the bus. She stared at him worriedly through the windshield, mouthing something that looked like 'what are you doing?'

"We've got to go," Rachel shouted, eyes wide.

Jerome ran alongside Rachel and followed her onto the bus. No sooner than his feet hit the aisle, Brandon snapped the doors shut and went hard on the steering wheel, sending the bus into a turn so sharp Jerome fell into a seat beside Carmen. When he found his bearings and forced himself upright, he found her smiling smugly at him. "Welcome back," she sneered.

* * *

Hours had passed since Courtney fought with her grandmother but the only reason she'd stopped crying was because she ran out of tears. She was curled up on her bed, staring out the window with burning, blurry eyes. The photo album clutched to her chest was spattered with teardrops. For what had to have been the hundredth time, she opened the book and found her favorite picture, the one she looked at every night before she went to sleep. With both of her parents, both older brothers, and herself. They were all smiling ear to ear, and her oldest brother was making a goofy face. She still had trouble wrapping her head around the fact that she was the only one left.

Courtney's stomach ached with hunger but she refused to step foot out of the trailer or eat the meal her grandmother prepared. That would somehow be like admitting wrong, or at least that was how Peggy would take it. Someone knocked on the door, and Courtney squeezed her eyes shut with dread. Her luck seemed to have run out even further. Grandma wouldn't dare knock, but Grandpa would, and she didn't want to talk to _anyone_. They would just tell her Peggy was right, she was just a kid and needed to respect her grandmother. Sighing, Courtney cleared her eyes of tears as much as she could and walked to the door, bracing herself for the worst as she pulled it open. Her eyebrows hitched up at the sight of Keisha.

"Hi," Keisha greeted her, giving a big smile. "Can I come in?" Courtney nodded and stepped aside to let her inside. She searched for some sign of judgement or aggression but saw nothing but sincerity. Keisha stepped inside and took a seat at the dinette booth, interlocking her hands atop the faded table. "I wanted to talk to you," she said, inclining her head towards the other booth.

Courtney slowly slid into the seat. "About what?"

"I'm not a therapist, but I did teach eleventh grade world history for nine years," Keisha said. "I know a hurting teenager when I see one. Your Grandmother might not listen, but if you ever need someone to, I will."

"Oh." Heat flooded Courtney's neck. Running through camp in tears surely produced all kinds of thoughts in her fellow survivors, but she was most ashamed that they must pity her. "Well, you don't have to. I'm okay."

"I know I don't _have_ to, but this has been hard on everybody," said Keisha. "We might as well try to help each other out when we can."

Courtney set her gaze on the woods beyond the window. A pair of wrens pecked between the roots of their claimed spruce tree. Life as usual for them, while all the humans were dying or suffering. "Grandma has changed so much," she blurted, surprising even herself.

"How so?"

"She didn't used to be such a…" Courtney struggled to find an appropriate word to say in front of an adult. "Bitter person. We all used to be really close, and now she won't even let me mention my parents or my brothers. I'm just supposed to forget about them, and I don't want to do that. They deserve to be remembered."

"You're absolutely right. Maybe it's best to respect the way your grandmother feels right now, for your own sake. But you certainly don't have to forget them." Keisha paused, shifting in her seat. "If you don't want to answer this, don't feel like you have to. But I couldn't help overhearing, and I just have to wonder…what did your grandpa do that has Peggy so mad at him?"

Courtney's eyes welled up again as the memories came rushing back. She roughly swept the tears away before they could roll down her cheeks. "Before Marvin and Clarence found us at that gas depot, my mom was with us. We were staying in a hotel with some other people. Mom got bit one day while trying to get food with Grandpa." She bit down hard on her lip, willing herself to continue. "We waited all day, but Mom just kept getting worse, then she fell asleep and Grandpa noticed she stopped breathing. He told me to go outside, and I know he…" she trailed off, unable to say the words. "Grandma doesn't believe she would have turned."

Keisha shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. She looked away for a long moment, and when she finally turned back to face Courtney, her eyes seemed much damper. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "I can't even imagine."

"That was over a month ago, and I still have nightmares almost every night." The image of her mother shuddering on the floor, impossibly pale and moaning in agony, was something Courtney didn't think she would ever get used to. However, that wasn't the only person she saw in her dreams. She'd dreamt of everyone she loved being eaten alive or turning. "My brothers too," she added, almost as an afterthought.

"Were they there?"

Courtney shook her head. "Brian was in the Air Force and deployed over in Iraq. Dustin went to the University of California. My mom tried to get a hold of them right up until the lines went down, but she never could." She sighed as an all too familiar sense of knowing fell over her like a black cloud. "They're gone too. I know they are."

"Your Grandma has chosen one extreme by refusing to believe bad things are happening," Keisha said. "You don't have to go to the other extreme and refuse to believe good things can still happen."

"Baghdad is five thousand six hundred and twenty-seven miles from Fairbanks," Courtney exclaimed. That number had been burned into her brain since the moment Brian deployed. As much as she would've liked to believe Keisha, the suggestion that Brian would come home was too absurd. "Five _thousand_ miles. We didn't even make it ten miles before my mom got bit."

"I'm not saying your brother is going to show up in Fairbanks tomorrow," said Keisha. "But we don't know what the rest of the world is like, Courtney. Iraq could be holding their own. Besides, your brother is in the armed forces." Her gentle smile returned. "I'm married to a former military man, and I can assure you they do not give up without one heck of a fight."

"What about a philosophy major at UCLA?" Unable to look at Keisha's sympathetic face anymore, Courtney snapped her attention back out the window. "Dustin didn't know anything about survival, and he was in _Los Angeles_," she emphasized. "I can't imagine how many walkers there are there."

"There's no way to know for sure right now. One thing that is certain is that _you _are still alive. Their memory, no matter what, will live on in you. I bet you have qualities of all of them."

Courtney sighed. Though she appreciated what Keisha was trying to do, false hope didn't seem like the way to go. "I just wish Grandma would accept that Grandpa had to do what he did."

"How does she think people turn if not after they're bitten?" Keisha asked, tipping her head with curiosity.

"I have no idea." She had stopped trying to figure that out long ago. Grandma never explained, and given her hostility on the subject, no one ever asked.

"Well, everyone has dealt with this in their own way. She'll come around."

"I hope so." After a few moments of silence, Courtney added, "Thanks for talking to me."

"Anytime. And I mean that," Keisha said, locking eyes with Courtney. "You know where we live."

"I really appreciate that. Thank you." Courtney reached out and grabbed Keisha by the wrist as she stood up. "You can't go yet! You haven't told me anything."

Keisha blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Friendship is a two way street. I told you about me, now you have to tell me about you."

"Okay." Keisha hesitantly sunk back into the booth. She drummed her fingers on the table thoughtfully for a few moments. "I've got one. I'm really glad you and Aaliyah get along so well." Courtney scoffed, sweeping strands of brown hair from her face. Before she could speak, Keisha held a hand up to stop her. "Aaliyah can be a handful. At least when you watch her, I can help cook or clean up. In a single day, I went from being a career woman to a stay at home mom. And that's all I know how to do. I can't hunt, I can't fish, I don't like guns, I can't handle myself in the city…" Keisha trailed off. She shrugged, a sadness in her eyes. "All the skills I worked so hard to have don't mean anything anymore."

Thunderous knocking upon the door made both of them jump. Keisha put a hand to her chest and leapt from her seat, beating Courtney to the door. She pulled it open and Clarence stood with one foot on the steps, his face set into a heavy frown. "There's a strange vehicle coming down the path," he said. Aaliyah squeezed past him and slid into the dinette booth, pulling her knees to her chest. "Keisha, you oughta stay here with the kids."

"What?" Keisha's mouth fell open. "Clarence, no, I can…" the rest of their conversation was lost on Courtney. Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest, all she could do was numbly join Aaliyah at the table. _Nobody_ could find Red Fox Creek, at least that's what Ben had always said. They were supposed to be safe.

* * *

After several direction mix-ups, the final leg of the bus's journey was spent with Jerome in the driver's seat. Some debates broke out over whether Jerome couldn't give directions or Brandon couldn't follow them, but anything was better than the tense silence they'd been sitting in. "We're almost there," Jerome announced as he turned off the asphalt onto an unmarked dirt road. Twenty four hours ago, he would have never guessed this would be reality.

"Finally," Rachel breathed. She put an arm around Emma's shoulders and gave her an excited squeeze.

In the seat closest to the doors, Brandon leaned forward and peered through the blood-splattered panels. He whistled, shaking his head. "You weren't kidding when you said this place was hard to find."

"Maybe a little too hard." Carmen eyed the heavily wooded land surrounding them. "I'm liable to go in the woods to take a piss and never be seen again."

Jerome warned, "It's gonna get bumpy." Maneuvering around the potholes that littered the road was more of a task than he expected. The largest thing he'd ever driven to Red Fox Creek was a pickup truck, and the bus was much wider than that. The bus bounced viciously as the tires dipped into potholes every few seconds.

Childish laughter erupted louder with each bump, mostly from Adrian. He'd gone from sitting quietly in the back to skipping back and forth between his father and Carmen, making various comments about their surroundings. Through his giggles, Adrian said, "This is fun!"

"You'll love it here." Jerome found the boy's brown eyes in the rearview mirror. The entire bus shook as he drove over a particularly deep hole. "There's a creek and all kinds of machinery. Maybe I'll take you for a spin on the backhoe if your daddy doesn't mind." As they cleared the roughest portion of the road, the trees and foliage began to thin. Then, just as Jerome was about to make the final turn, he slammed on the brakes. The camp was far from empty. Half a dozen people had formed a line in front of the trailers. Most of them held guns and though he was far away, Jerome could tell none of them were friendly faces.

"Dude, what the hell?" Brandon demanded. "You said this place would be untouched for sure."

"I thought it - you saw what it's like, h-how could anyone find it?" Jerome stammered. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air. Unless someone unknowingly stumbled upon the former mine site, one of his coworkers had to have been down there. And what if there was? Things had changed. Jerome wasn't so oblivious he didn't know that. It was perfectly possible that people he used to call friends would shoot him on sight, and he'd driven his family right into it.

Carmen's nose practically rested against the window. "We can take them," she said. "Some of them look old, and we aren't that outnumbered."

"_Take them_?" Rachel repeated, unimpressed.

"What other choice do we have?" Carmen demanded. "We are _not_ turning around. Frenchie promised us a place to stay, and I _expect_ a place to stay."

Jerome ran a trembling hand through his hair. His stomach frothed so viciously, he was sure what meager food he'd eaten was going to make a reappearance any second. Much to his own dismay, he had to admit Carmen was right. They had nowhere else to go. Returning to Fairbanks wasn't a choice. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Jerome clicked off his seatbelt. "I'm gonna walk down there," he said.

"Papa, no!" Emma pleaded. "They have guns."

"I have to." Jerome mustered a smile and patted her hand. "I will be okay, I promise."

"I'll come too," Brandon said, shooting to his feet.

Jerome shook his head. "They might think we're trying something."

"They might think that with just you, too," Rachel pointed out. "What are the chances these people are going to welcome us with open arms? Come on, honey. This place isn't worth your life. "

"I'm holding onto the hope that there are still a handful of people willing to help their fellow man," Jerome said. Where else could they go that was so perfectly secluded, that already had shelter and a water source? He had no other choice but to hope these people would be understanding. Maybe if they knew there were kids with him, that would remind them that sometimes people just need help. Rachel crossed her arms tightly and shook her head, but didn't say anything else. "I won't push it," Jerome assured her. "If they tell me to go away, I will."

Brandon sighed. He pressed a button near the steering wheel and the doors swung open. "If things go bad, you _run_ back here. I'll keep the doors open. You can jump in and I'll put the pedal to the metal."

"This is nuts," Carmen grumbled.

"Alright, Brandon. Thank you." Jerome looked to his wife and daughter. "I'll be right back. Don't worry."

Immediately upon stepping off the bus, Jerome raised his hands high above his head. If they wanted to shoot him they'd find a reason, but he wasn't going to give them one. A wave of nostalgia crashed over him and almost overtook the fear. Dirt and gravel beneath his boots, golden sunlight on the spruces, and the smell of earth and nature. This was practically a second home to him. As he rounded the bend and the people became clearer, a chill went up his spine. An older woman with short white hair stood with a no-nonsense expression, hands in the pockets of her plaid shirt. Just to her left stood a man of similar age. He looked far less aggressive, with more of a 'deer in the headlights' look. Jerome's worries eased ever so slightly. Seniors were a good sign, it meant this group wasn't the 'survival of the fittest' type like Jerome had met at Fort McAdams.

At the very front of the group stood a tall, black, mountain of a man. His dark green sweater was tucked into cargo pants, exposing the gun on his hip. Unlike the others, he hadn't drawn his weapon and simply kept one hand on his holster. As soon as Jerome was within earshot, the man called, "Don't come any closer." Jerome froze in place; he didn't have to be told twice. The feeling in his arms was fading to prickles, but he didn't dare lower them. "Why are you here?" The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Not to cause trouble," Jerome answered quickly. At least two of the survivors had found him in the sights on their guns. "I just wanted…" he trailed off as one of the trailer doors burst open. Jerome's jaw dropped as Ben Wallace rushed down the steps, only to stop so quickly he almost tumbled over. Their eyes locked. Jerome's pulse raced faster than he could ever remember. For one fleeting moment he was very excited. Seeing anyone familiar, let alone his best friend, was quite a shock. Then, his chest constricted so tightly he struggled to breathe. Everything had changed since they last saw one another. The world had ended. To most people, nothing mattered anymore but survival. Clearly Ben already had a group, and Jerome decided at once he couldn't hold it against Ben if he decided to send him away.

"Get your guns off him," Ben said, his voice hoarse. The hand that had been reaching into his jacket fell limply to his side. Tense, awkward silence dragged on as those holding guns tightened their grips and glanced at one another questioningly. Several people flinched when Ben cackled like a madman. He charged forward and tackled Jerome in a bear hug that sent them both stumbling backwards.

"You look like you've been put through the wringer, man." Ben released Jerome from their embrace and looked him up and down in awe, shaking his head.

Jerome snorted and raised a brow. He motioned at Ben with a flip of his hand. "You look a bit different yourself," he replied. Ben was just a year older than Jerome but could've passed for someone pushing fifty rather than barely in his forties. It had only been a few months since they'd last seen each other, but Ben's strawberry blonde hair seemed to have taken on a lot more gray in that time. There had always been a sort of vibrancy and brightness to his blue eyes, but now they seemed dull, like the outbreak had sucked the life out of him - and if what Jerome had experienced in Fairbanks was any indication, maybe it had.

"What the hell is going on here?" An older lady with short, silver hair stood off to the side, staring expectantly at Ben.

"You've been living in this guy's trailer, Peggy." Ben chuckled when her mouth dropped open. He clapped Jerome on the shoulder and continued, "This is Jerome Dufour, a good friend of mine. We worked together up until a few months ago."

This information seemed to relax some of the strangers, but not all of them. Peggy had crossed her arms and was regarding Jerome with a scrutinizing glare. Even if most of the others weren't so outwardly hostile, they were glancing at one another questioningly and stayed silent. Jerome awkwardly raised a hand to wave at them. "Nice to meet you all," he said.

"Did you come alone?" Ben asked.

Jerome shook his head. "Rachel and Emma are on the bus. Some other folks too."

"What are you waiting for?" Ben questioned. "Bring them down!"

Jerome shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "Are you sure you want us to stay?" he asked hesitantly. "There are six of us, and if - "

"Bring them down," Ben repeated, leaving no room for debate. Relief and energy Jerome hadn't felt in months coursed through him like electricity. His family was safe. They didn't have to return to the city. They made it. Jerome jogged just far enough up the path to see the bus. He gave a double thumbs up, then waved them down. Moments later, the bus started its descent down the path.

As most of the group slowly went their separate ways, eyeing Jerome suspiciously all the while, the mountain of a man lingered. "My name is Clarence Evans," he said, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you." Jerome bit back a grimace as he accepted the handshake. Clarence had one hell of a grip.

"Hey. What's with your arm?" A tall, pale young man with greasy black hair stood over by the treeline, shotgun slung over his shoulder. "Well?" He demanded, hardly giving Jerome time to answer. "Are you bit?" By now, all attention was on Jerome. The strangers gawked at him with slack jaws and bulging eyes, as if he was seconds away from turning into a walker. His cheeks grew hot. Clarence's indifferent expression hardened into something near anger.

"It's not a bite," Jerome said. "I got cut in Fairbanks, that's all." None of the survivors relaxed or looked remotely convinced. Even Ben seemed doubtful and held Jerome's gaze for a moment before nodding to his arm. Jerome hiked up his sleeve. He unwound the gauze and extended his arm for everyone to see. The narrow gash glittered with antibiotic ointment and some of the inflammation had already started to fade. "See?" He gave a small, nervous smile before wrapping the bandage back on. "Nothing to worry about."

If there were any lingering doubts, there was no time for anybody to voice them. The bus finished its descent and rumbled to a stop at the far end of camp. Ben snapped his fingers, seeming to suddenly remember something, and jogged off to his trailer. The bus doors popped open. Brandon, Adrian, and Carmen filed off first, stiffly heading to the center of camp where they were bombarded with introductions and handshakes. Rachel and Emma came next. They hurried to Jerome, who wrapped his arms tightly around both of them. "We're okay," he whispered, resting his chin atop Rachel's auburn hair.

Ben emerged from his trailer again, this time with Marvin close behind. Jerome grinned and disentangled himself from his family to greet the older man. He'd gotten to know Ben's dad well over the years and was pleased to see he'd made it through the outbreak; not many seniors had been at the Fort. A lifelong business man, Marvin managed funds for the mine and helped the crew whenever they were a man short. "I'll be damned..." Marvin strode across the clearing with an ear-to-ear grin and stopped just before Jerome, hands on his hips. He gaped at the Dufours, shaking his head in disbelief. "Boy, is it good to see familiar faces."

"You can say that again." Jerome clapped Marvin on the shoulder and peered over his head to the trailer, expecting at least two others. "Where are Marcia and Kate?" No sooner than the words left his mouth, Jerome realized how insensitive his question was and wanted to smack himself. The joy had vanished from Marvin and Ben's faces like someone flipped a switch. Jerome smiled apologetically. "I am sorry..."

"Don't be. You didn't know." Ben shrugged, but kept his explanation curt. "Mom didn't make it."

"What about Kate?" Rachel asked. Though she and Jerome both had mentally accepted they'd at the very least never see their friends again, the chance that one of them alive sparked hope they hadn't had for months.

"Oh, she's fine, just resting," Ben said. Rachel squealed giddily and clapped her hands. She started towards the trailer, but Ben quickly called after her, his eyes wide. "Wait, Rachel! Wait!" She whirled around, brows raised questioningly. "You'll have to see her later," Ben said. "She's not feeling well. Dehydrated, I think."

"Are you sure you don't want me to check her out?" Rachel spoke slowly, her voice tinged with doubt. "I know you probably don't have a lot of medical supplies, but I might be able to help."

"No," Ben said firmly. "Trust me, she's fine." Jerome shared a bewildered look with his wife, already sensing there was something going unsaid. He may not have been around Ben for months, but he could still read the man like an open book. Ben paused for a long, awkward moment before a sheepish smile spread across his flushed face. "You guys just got here, I'm sure you want to get settled in," Ben said, beckoning them to follow with a wave of his arm. "Let me show you around the new Red Fox Creek."


	4. Four: Surrounded

The evening flew by in a blur of introductions and questions. Brandon had let it slip that Jerome and his family were from the freshly fallen Fort McAdams, and everybody was eager to hear their story. But Jerome, Rachel, and Emma were far more interested in getting settled than reliving their day. After scarfing down roasted pigeon and some canned vegetables, Jerome hurried into Ben's trailer, which had the only shower in camp. It had been two months since he'd showered without a reminder to keep it under five minutes and he was glad to take his time.

Jerome slid into the dimly lit stall and watched absently as tepid creek water stripped dirt and blood from his skin. Being back at Red Fox Creek almost felt magical, like Jerome had stepped back in time or into another reality. Outside of camp, absolutely _everything_ had changed, but within the sea of aspens and spruces surrounding the creek, so much was the same. Even Jerome's old clothes were still there. "It would have been too weird seeing someone else walking around in your clothes," Ben had said, showing him the dusty tubs full of his belongings that had been shoved to the back of the dining trailer. So when Jerome walked into the clearing wearing the same faded jeans, Carhartt jacket, and work boots he once donned daily, there was a moment when he would've swore the past two months had been nothing more than a nightmare, and he'd finally woken up.

Stars twinkled dazzlingly bright in an inky black sky void of clouds. Flames from the crackling, popping campfire danced tall and orange in the center of camp. To Jerome's surprise, Kate was beside the fire, snacking on leftover blueberries and catching up with Rachel. She'd made a quick recovery in the past few hours, and Ben had almost had a heart attack when she burst from the trailer during dinner, insisting she felt much better. She had been ecstatic to see the Dufour family, greeting them all with big hugs and scolding Ben for not getting her as soon as they arrived.

Jerome walked to the only vacant chair left, between Rachel and Marvin, and plopped into his seat with a contented sigh. Rachel immediately popped up. "My turn!" She pecked Jerome on the cheek before she headed for Ben's trailer, toting some clothes that Lauren, the only woman in camp who shared such a petite frame, had offered up.

"Whoa, where are you going?" Jerome snagged his daughter by the sleeve as she and Aaliyah stood from the blanket they'd been sitting on. The Evans' little girl was just over a year younger than Emma, and the two had been inseparable all evening.

"Aaliyah's going to show me a bird's nest," Emma answered huffily, as though she was offended by her father's question. "She says it's on a really low branch just behind one of the trailers, and you can see right inside."

Jerome bit his lip apprehensively and glanced around. Outside of the firelight, the camp was pitch black. He could barely make out the shadowy outlines of trees beyond the trailers. "Why don't you wait until tomorrow?" He said, firmly more of a statement than a question. "It's awfully dark, so I don't want you running around where I can't see you."

As Emma's face fell into a frown, and she opened her mouth to argue, Keisha interrupted. "Let them go, Jerome." She smiled, pulled a small flashlight from her cardigan, and handed it to Aaliyah. "Trust me, it's perfectly safe. We've been here for months and without a single walker in camp." The girls took off before Jerome could say anything else. Any feeling of peace or comfort he had vanished as soon as Emma, Aaliyah, and the bobbing beam of their flashlight disappeared behind the trailers.

Keisha patted him on the hand, forcing him to drag his gaze from the last spot they were visible. "Relax," she encouraged through a toothy grin, seeming thoroughly amused. "It's different here. They're okay."

"That's what I thought at Fort McAdams this morning," he said lightly, giving a tight-lipped, polite smile in return. Everything was okay until it wasn't. That was just the way it worked since the moment the outbreak started, and he wasn't comfortable just sitting there, waiting for the other shoe to drop with Emma off in the woods. But of course, at the mention of Fort McAdams, half the heads around the campfire turned in his direction.

"This morning?" Ben questioned. He leaned around Marvin to gawk at Jerome, blue eyes bulging in disbelief. "The Fort went down _today_? You never said that." A stunned silence fell over the group. Ben stared at him for a moment longer, then seemed to realize he was being rude. He sank back into his seat. "We're all very curious about what happened." He spoke nonchalantly, but Jerome could tell he was about to burst. "You know, if you're ready."

Jerome held back a scoff. Ready or not, a dozen people were locked onto him, looking desperate and rather impatient to hear his story. He didn't blame them. Though they weren't there, they had to see that Fort McAdams was one of the last stands of civilization and it wasn't a good thing that it was gone. "Well," he began uncertainly, taking a moment to sigh and gather his muddled thoughts. "Things had been going downhill, but I do not think anybody expected this to happen. For a few weeks, meals got smaller until they cut out lunch altogether, we used to be able to come and go from our barracks but then they wouldn't let us go out after dark, things like that. Then this morning, it just…" he trailed off, shaking his head.

Terrible, fresh memories came flooding back. The screaming and crying from terrified and dying people echoed clearly in his head. "I don't know what happened," he continued, his own voice sounding unfamiliarly gruff. He focused on the campfire so he didn't have to see the group's sympathetic, frightened faces. "The soldiers told us 'Fort McAdams' services are coming to an end.' Someone started shooting, and that was that."

Marvin sat up a little straighter. Almost boastfully, he announced, "I said from the beginning those supposed refugee centers were terrible ideas." He elbowed Ben, who swatted his father on the arm and hissed something in his ear. Marvin continued as if he hadn't heard anything. "I talked Ben and Kate into coming here right away, and I'm glad I did."

"You had the right idea," Clarence agreed, combing a hand over his moustache. "Like I've always said, never trust the government with your life, with your family." He chuckled and gestured towards himself. "I mean, I'm a former United States Marine, I can say that. Not that my brothers in the National Guard don't have their hearts in the right place...you just can't trust anyone but yourself with the safety of your family."

Jerome nodded solemnly, and though he now agreed with Clarence, he had to wonder if any of his words were jabs at him for not 'taking care of his family' from the start.

Across the circle, Kate huffed and shared an indignant, knowing look with Lauren. "Not everyone's cut out for that," she said, enough of an edge to her tone to make Clarence's eyes narrow. "There's nothing shameful about relying on other people, especially not those who are supposed to protect you anyway."

"There were a lot of good people at Fort McAdams," Jerome said, snapping his mouth shut as soon as the words had come out. For the first time, it had hit him that those people were gone. All of his friends, all of his acquaintances, the people he, Rachel, and Emma had shared their barracks building with for two months. Living or dead, everybody he ever knew before or after the outbreak was lost...except the Wallace family. Jerome looked at Marvin, Ben, and Kate for a long moment, a great feeling of gratitude swelling in his chest. "We didn't know all of the guards," he continued after clearing his throat, realizing the rest of the circle was still waiting for the rest of his story. "Most of them were good to us. They tried their best to make it work."

One of the trailer doors creaked open then snapped closed. Rachel sauntered over, hair wrapped in a towel, and returned to her chair. "I was just filling the group in on our adventures," Jerome said, not wanting her to be too surprised if the conversation continued the way it had been going. "I've only told them about the Fort so far."

Keisha quirked a brow. "There's more?"

Brandon guffawed. He'd stayed silent, observing everything at the far end of the circle with Adrian on his lap. "Oh, he's just getting started," he said, grinning. "Tell 'em about the plaza, dude."

"Why don't _you_ tell them about the plaza?" Jerome suggested. His day had been nightmarishly long, and he was growing tired of being in the spotlight.

Just as Brandon launched into the story, there were two loud shrieks and heavy rustling behind the trailers. Jerome leapt from his chair and almost bowled Keisha over in his terrified, panicked frenzy to reach his daughter. He hadn't bounded three steps before Aaliyah and Emma came hurtling around the farthest trailer. They slowed to a stop as they reached the campfire, and Jerome realized with a jolt that they were now laughing.

Rachel had been right on Jerome's heels. Her towel now laid discarded in the dirt. Her damp hair streamed behind her as she stormed over to Emma and clutched her by the shoulders. She seemed overwhelmed with questions, spluttering until she finally demanded, "What were you doing?"

"The bird woke up." Emma's smile faded fast. She glanced around nervously, realizing the entire group was on their feet and Clarence was shaking his head, returning his gun to its holster. Keisha was already dragging Aaliyah off to their tent, meeting every one of her protests with the declaration that it was bedtime. Emma blinked innocently and scuffed her shoe in the dirt. "It squawked at us and flew right at my face. We...we thought it was funny."

"What bird?" Rachel's hazel eyes were alight with confusion and anger. "What were you two doing out there alone?"

Jerome was about to go over and catch Rachel up, but a hand on his back made him jump. He whirled around to find Ben, hands raised in surrender. "Get a grip, man," he said, slowly lowering his arms. "Keisha wasn't kidding. We _never_ get walkers in camp. I don't know what it was like at Fort McAdams, but your kid can run around here without worrying about that." Ben jerked his thumb over his shoulder and started forward. "Come on, I need to talk to you for a minute."

Jerome wanted to tell him his worries were based on his experiences with biters in the city rather than what happened at the Fort, but the moment had passed.

He reluctantly followed Ben through camp as the rest of the group prepared for bed. Rachel had snatched up her towel and was leading away a red-faced, pouting Emma. Lauren, Kate, and Samantha were talking quietly as they picked up the abandoned blankets and chairs. Jerome reared back when Dean and Marvin poured large buckets of water over the fire. The flames hissed and sizzled as they died out, leaving nothing but glowing logs.

By the time Ben and Jerome reached the path out of camp, it was already so dark that Jerome couldn't see his hand in front of his face. If not for Ben's flashlight leading the way, he would have already been lost. Uneasiness crept over Jerome like a cold blanket. He had no idea what was waiting for them out there, and no matter how much everyone tried to convince him it was safe, he'd have to see that for himself.

The sound of Red Fox Creek's rushing waters grew louder as they blindly neared it and finally, Ben's heavy footfalls came to a stop. "Still with me?" Ben waved the flashlight beam across Jerome's face and grinned when he cringed and tried to block the light from his eyes. Insects and night birds chittered endlessly throughout their heavily wooded surroundings. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Jerome's heartbeat quickened as the possibilities played through his mind. Was something wrong with Ben or his family? Was he going to ask Jerome to leave after all? He figured the truth was probably closer to his first concern as Ben blurted, "So...Kate's not dehydrated."

"Okay," Jerome said, exhaling slowly. He wasn't sure where this was going, but it only seemed fair for him not to jump to any conclusions until he had the full story. He frowned, worry replacing his momentary panic. "Then it's something more serious?"

Ben nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. "She's uh...well, she's schizophrenic." He stared at Jerome, obviously waiting for some kind of reaction. Jerome's eyes widened but he was careful to not show how surprised he really felt. The images this term conjured in his mind certainly didn't fit Kate, but he knew next to nothing about schizophrenia anyway. Ben continued, "She's had it since I've known her. You can't even tell with medication, but she ran out." He gulped and didn't give Jerome time to respond before launching into a half-mumbled rant. "I forgot her, _forgot_ my own wife. You know, she wandered out of camp this morning, and I found her in the scrapyard. That's on me." He growled, free hand clenching into a fist. "I've been so wrapped up with everyone else when I should've remembered what she has and done something about it."

"Don't beat yourself up," said Jerome firmly. "You've had your hands full taking care of things around here, I can tell. Besides, it's not like any real harm has been done. Kate will be good as new once she gets more of her pills, no?"

Ben gave him a long, solemn look. "That's the thing. Dad usually goes with me into the city, but after last time…you know how it is, Jerome. Sometimes walkers just come out of nowhere. Dad can't move like he used to, and he had a close call, _too_ close. I haven't let him come with me since, so sometimes Clarence comes along. Jake and Lauren do most of the runs into the city, and I just..." He glanced towards camp and lowered his voice even though they were far from anybody who could overhear. "Things have happened so fast. Even though I've spent day in and day out with these folks, I've only known some of them for a few weeks. I don't know how they'd react to knowing about Kate. I don't know that I can trust them."

Jerome felt strangely honored. Even though the world had drastically changed since they last spoke, Ben still trusted him. By now, Jerome had a pretty good idea where this conversation was headed - Ben needed someone to back him up in Fairbanks to get Kate's pills. The very idea made Jerome's stomach sink, but he already knew his fate was sealed. There wasn't anybody else Ben could turn to. "You want me to go with you?" Jerome asked, almost laughing at the way Ben's face went slack. "Gee, Benny, you could've just spit it out. Of course I will go."

"Don't you want some time to think this through?" Ben asked, squinting at him dubiously. "I want to head out first thing tomorrow morning, you don't have much experience with walkers, and I don't even know if we'll find the pills..." He pursed his lips, grimly shaking his head. "I know I'm asking a lot."

"Not much more than you asked of me when you were my boss," Jerome quipped, recalling all the grunt work Ben used to pawn off on him. Some of the tension lifted and Ben chuckled. "I admit I'm not crazy about driving back into that mess, but Kate needs her pills," Jerome said, shrugging. From what Ben had said, whatever medication Kate had been on kept her functioning. Everyone deserved their best shot at a decent life, even in the apocalypse. Besides - the last thing they needed was to worry about her wandering off or any other unpredictable behavior.

"I'll never be able to repay you..."

"Don't be silly," said Jerome, scowling waving his hand dismissively. "This is what family does."

Ben scoffed. "What, asks terrible favors of each other? I guess you're not wrong." He slowly started back to camp, shining the flashlight along the heavily rooted, sloped path.

They chatted about old times and new times, and for just a few moments, Jerome was able to forget what was going on in the world. However, as they returned to camp, and Jerome saw the bloody splashes still smeared across the front of the short bus, a grim sense of foreboding fell over him. If something went wrong in Fairbanks again, the chances of someone with a school bus speeding in to save them seemed pretty slim.

Despite everything on his mind, and despite the fact that he'd slept on a trailer floor elbow-to-elbow with his wife and daughter, Jerome slept soundly. His former trailer had been taken by Peggy, who had informed him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted it back he would have to take it. Every other space in camp was already occupied, so the Dufour family wound up bunking in the dining trailer. Their makeshift bed of old sleeping bags and dusty blankets wasn't as comfortable as their cots at the Fort, and they were wedged between totes of supplies and the walls, but Jerome didn't care. He'd have been content sleeping under the picnic table after everything they had been through. Nothing else mattered as much as it used to, as long as his family was safe.

The sun was barely above the horizon when Ben cracked open the trailer door and nudged Jerome with his foot until he rolled over and gave him a thumbs up. Although he'd gotten several hours of solid sleep, morning still seemed to have come too soon. Jerome had gotten used to hearing soft gunfire throughout the night as whoever was on nightwatch took care of the biters, or people crying themselves to sleep as they despaired over their lost loved ones. At Red Fox Creek, there was peace, quiet, and a different sense of security. It was just Jerome and his family in that little trailer, and he still had the revolver in reach.

He couldn't help but feel guilty that they could have had this all along had he not clung to the idea that Fort McAdams was some guaranteed safe haven. This wasn't the first time he questioned what would have happened had they come straight to Red Fox rather than go to the refugee center, but for his own sake, it had to be the last.

The dim blue light of dawn outlined Rachel and Emma, soundly asleep in their heap of blankets. Jerome tiptoed around the trailer, pulling on his jacket and gathering his things. He emptied the backpack he'd taken from the mall of everything except ammo and a few snackfoods, tossed in a bottle of water, and tucked the revolver into his waistband. His muscles ached from an entire day of being on the run, and his head was already starting to pound with the beginnings of a headache. The latter was almost certainly from his argument with Rachel just before bed. She was still awake when he had returned to camp and he had figured - perhaps mistakenly - that she should be filled in as soon as possible.

As he expected, she was pissed. "You haven't even been here a day and you're leaving?" she'd hissed, struggling to keep her voice down. "We almost died today. Why do you want to risk it again?" Even after he told her the truth about Kate, she didn't accept it. "That's not your responsibility. Emma is. But hey, you've got to do what you've got to do. You also can tell her yourself that you're leaving." And that was what almost did him in. Looking his little girl in the eye and telling her he had to go away was one of the hardest things he ever did. The three of them hadn't been separated at all in months. She broke down in tears almost immediately, then angrily told him to have a nice trip. Unfortunately, that was the last interaction with them Jerome would have until he came back.

With one final glance at his family, Jerome sighed and headed outside. Everything was covered in a thin layer of sparkly frost, from Keisha and Clarence's tent to the tufts of grass puffing from the cracked dirt. Samantha, bundled up in a puffy coat and wrapped snugly in a blanket, waved at him from atop the Peterson's trailer. The heart of camp was otherwise vacant and looked oddly empty compared to the constant hustle and bustle he had seen the day before. A rusty two-door pickup idled on the road out of camp, bright red taillights contrasting harshly against the dim clearing. Jerome could see through the frosty window that Ben was already in the driver's seat, preoccupied by whatever was in his hand. The truck creaked horribly both when Jerome opened the door and when he climbed inside. The seats were not unlike carpet in texture, and a myriad of stains blended in with the brown stripes.

"Where did you find this thing, the junkyard?" Jerome dropped his bag beside Ben's on the heavily littered floor. Stale cigarette smoke and a general mustiness made him want to brave the cold and crack the window, but amazingly enough, the heat worked.

"It was Dean's." Ben started up the path as soon as Jerome had buckled his seatbelt, expertly swerving around the various potholes. "I know it's not very pretty but it's like a tank," he said, smiling. "This baby has gotten us in and out of Fairbanks more times than I can count."

"If you say so." Jerome reached into his pocket and rooted around until he found the baggy containing his breakfast. Three pieces of beef jerky and half a bag of trail mix wasn't much to quell his empty stomach, but at least it was something. They had been allowed second helpings at dinner but his body had long since devoured that. He offered the baggy to Ben but he shook his head, so Jerome shrugged, hoping he'd already had something to eat. He reached across the seat and picked up one of two pill bottles. The label read _Thorazine - Kate Wallace - Take as prescribed_, same as the other bottle.

"I know," Ben commented quietly, watching Jerome out the corner of his eye. "We're probably not gonna find any. It's a needle in a haystack."

"Don't think like that, Benny." Jerome frowned and took a bite from his jerky. Overgrown foliage whipped the truck as they turned onto the main road. "We _will_ find some," Jerome insisted. "We won't leave until we do."

Though Ben smiled, he shook his head. "If you say so." Most of their ascent up the road was quiet. Jerome wasn't sure if it was because Ben didn't have anything else to say, or just wanted to focus on driving. They must've gone at least ten minutes before Ben abruptly asked, "How did Rachel take it?"

"Not very well." He recounted the story, how Rachel had been very angry and thought he was wrong to go. By the time he was finished, he could tell Ben was biting back laughter. "I hate to leave with her angry," Jerome said. "But I'm not gonna feel bad forever. She should understand, this is important."

"Let me give you some advice," Ben began, a mischievous grin broadening across his round, ruddy face. "Never tell your wife she 'should' do anything. That's a sure way to get her to do the opposite."

"Rachel isn't like that."

"All women are like that."

Jerome groaned. "You can't paint everyone with the same brush. What works for you and Kate probably won't work for me and Rachel." Ben snorted. He made a whip motion with his hand and the sound effect to match. Jerome refrained from rolling his eyes into the back of his head. Sometimes Ben could be an ass. He and Kate had been married a few years longer, and he seemed to believe that made him an expert on the matter. Besides that, Jerome knew Ben just took pleasure in getting on his nerves.

Jerome opened the glove box. Half a dozen cassette tapes lay inside, nestled among a ratty map and various brochures. None of the names scribbled across the tapes rang a bell. He fiddled with one of the newer looking ones before glancing hesitantly towards Ben. He'd shared his survival story with the group, now he wanted to know how Ben and his family fared. "So...um, what did you do in the beginning?" He asked softly.

"You know how you said you guys went to the Fort first thing? Well, we headed out of town first thing," Ben explained. "Of course it wasn't that simple. People were fist-fighting in the middle of the street, there was looting and rioting, cars piled up and blocking the streets. And all the while, walkers were taking over." Ben's thick fingers tightened around the steering wheel, turning bone white. "Mom, uh...she didn't even make it two weeks. We were out looking for food, and she just got grabbed." He paused and gnawed at his bottom lip.

When he spoke again, it was hardly more than a whisper. "Everything after that has happened so fast, it feels like it's been years. There are whole days I don't even think of her...really makes me feel like a piece of shit when I realize."

Jerome swallowed thickly. He shook his head, half out of disbelief and half out of the hope he could sweep out the images of Ben's mother being devoured. "I'm so sorry," he said, and that was all he could think to say.

The words hung in the air for a long time. Ben's grip on the steering wheel didn't loosen and he kept his gaze firmly on the road, though Jerome wondered if he was really seeing it. "There was so little warning," he murmured. "Few rumblings of something weird on the news, and bing, bang, boom, the world as we knew it was over. I didn't even realize how bad things were until those messages on the radio. Did you hear them?" Ben sniggered before Jerome could answer, seeming to realize that had to have been how he heard of Fort McAdams in the first place. "Of course you did. I tried to call you," he said urgently, almost defensively. "Must have tried a dozen times before I realized the lines were down. Was even gonna drive to your house, but Dad said we couldn't risk it."

Jerome blinked at him slowly, surprised. He'd tried to get in touch with Ben too, but he'd never expected him to have done the same. Ben had a larger family, and people tended to stick with blood in a crisis. "I called you and Rachel tried to call her sister, but neither one of us could get through. Lines sure went down fast, didn't they?" He sighed heavily. "Maybe it's for the best. It worked out, for us, anyway."

"Yeah," Ben agreed half-heartedly, pursing his lips. "God works in mysterious ways, huh?"

Jerome nodded, only somewhat focused on the present. He couldn't think too much about God or fate without it consuming him. Nothing made sense anymore. There had always been bad in the world, sure, but now there seemed to be far more tragedy and heartache than anything else. As the conversation lulled, Jerome shoved a cassette into the player before the depressing silence could mount too much. Ben wordlessly assisted with the buttons, and the rest of their trip was driven to a soundtrack of classic country.

By the time Ben and Jerome found a pharmacy, they had listened to both sides of the cassette and played a rousing game where one of them named an actor and the other guessed what movie they were from. They had refrained from any more talk of survival, and Ben purposely tried to keep the mood up, slapping on a smile even though he knew it didn't reach his eyes. He pulled the truck into the parking lot and cut the engine, quickly scanning their surroundings. Forgotten papers and garbage littered the street. Several bodies were slumped against the pharmacy's brick exterior, but they were the only corpses in sight, dead or otherwise. Ben was sure he'd never get used to a city that was once so alive looking so totally abandoned, left to rot like the walkers that had taken it over.

When Ben exited the truck he found the temperature considerably warmer than when they left camp. That was early Alaskan autumn; winter one minute and summer the next. A soft breeze ruffled his hair, but it was hardly a second before the foul stench of decay seized his sense of smell. He glared disdainfully at the bodies against the building, festering in the sun for God knows how long.

"Which way do you want to go?" Jerome was grimacing but didn't mention the smell, nor did he even glance towards the bodies. He pulled his backpack on and came around the truck to join Ben at the tailgate. The pharmacy was adjoined to a grocery store, and out of the four doors, only two were intact.

Ben motioned for Jerome to follow him. He led the way across the parking lot and turned around the corner of the pharmacy, where a large drive-through window glared against golden sunlight. "Saw it on the way in," Ben explained, leaning down to pick up a stray chunk of concrete. "Step back."

"Wait, maybe we shouldn't - " Jerome's protest was interrupted by the window exploding inward as Ben hurled the concrete through the glass. He scoffed and blinked at Ben, exasperated. "Are you sure you should have done that?"

"Ah, get off it," Ben grumbled. He used the thick sleeve of his jacket to sweep any remaining shards of glass out the frame then squinted inside, searching for any walkers. "If things magically go back to normal tomorrow, a broken window is going to be the least of anyone's problems."

"I meant because of the noise." Jerome pointed down the street, where a few walkers were shambling out from an alley.

Ben climbed through the window. His boots crunched against the glass. "Screw 'em. By the time they get anywhere near here we'll be halfway back to camp." The pharmacy was disappointingly small inside. Plenty of prescriptions had gone without pickup but there were only a few shelves. At the front of the room sat a desk, presumably where pickups happened from inside the store. Just beyond that, a floor to ceiling security gate was pulled shut. The rest of the store was too dark for Ben to make out anything besides dim outlines of shelves and discarded items on the floor.

Jerome laboriously pulled himself inside, struggling and cursing as his backpack got snagged on the window frame. He huffed once his feet were finally on the floor and started for the left side of the room while Ben went for the right. "Thorazine, Thorazine..." Jerome sang softly, his French accent mangling the words into something barely recognizable.

Ben snorted and cut him an amused look over his shoulder. "How the hell is your accent still that strong as long as you've been in America?" He hadn't expected a real answer and wasn't surprised when Jerome just shrugged sheepishly in response. "Take everything," Ben said. He removed his bag from his shoulder and tossed in anything that looked remotely useful. Now that they had a nurse in camp, Rachel would probably know what these fancy words meant and what they could be used for.

"We don't know what half this stuff is for." Jerome held a prescription bottle into a strip of sunlight and squinted to read it, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. "What if someone else's wife needs sulfur-meth-a-zill?" He asked, oblivious to how heavily he had butchered the pronunciation.

"Every husband for himself," Ben replied. None of the sparse boxes in reach were Thorazine, but he took them anyway, clearing the wall far sooner than he had hoped. He moved to the next set of shelves in the center of the room. Both men continued until the room was almost picked clean, but neither had any Thorazine by the end. At the end of his last unsearched shelf, Ben angrily tossed a prescription laxative into the black void beyond the security gate. He hadn't really expected finding Kate's pills to be simple, but the surge of pressure he felt at not finding any was too much. "This is stupid, isn't it?" He asked, more to himself than to Jerome. "Don't know what I was thinking."

"Come on," Jerome chided. He joined Ben at the service desk and set his backpack down to rearrange the items within. "This is only the first place we've tried."

Of course Ben never thought it would be easy. But reality was rearing its ugly head and snapping him out of the cocky trance he'd been in, blinded by the instinct to help his wife. "Even if we do find some Thorazine, what happens when that runs out?" He questioned. "Nobody is coming to refill Kate's prescription. Once what's in Fairbanks is gone, it's gone. Then what?"

Distinct rasping, gurgling moans of walkers answered from somewhere beyond the window. Ben's breath caught in his throat. He and Jerome simultaneously drew their guns and started forward, stepping carefully around the glass and discarded packages. Ben motioned for Jerome to hang back and edged his way along the wall, trying to stay in the shadows. Over a dozen walkers were ambling towards the window as fast as their decaying legs would allow. Their ravenous groans intensified at the sight of Ben, who hadn't hid as well as he had thought.

"Shit, shit…" Ben's heart thumped painfully in his chest. He was already cursing himself for not keeping the noise level down, wondering if it was going to get them killed. Three walkers reached the window at the same time. One of them seemed particularly motivated. Her stringy hair bounced wildly as she pushed through the other two, a guttural snarl tearing out from between her gnashing teeth. Jerome had pressed himself up against the opposite wall, arms hanging by his sides, and one hand clinging limply to the revolver. He stared, unflinching, as Ben shot two of their attackers, only for three to immediately take their place.

"Hey!" Ben hollered, struggling to hear himself think over the ringing in his ears. It took a few moments before Jerome's widened gaze moved to Ben. "Get that security gate open, I'll hold them off." Jerome dashed across the room and began pulling at the bars, leaving his gun behind on the desk. Ben centered the walker's heads within his sights and pulled the trigger again and again. No matter how many slumped to the ground, every walker Ben took down was immediately replaced with another and soon, it became too much.

The gun slipped from his hand and clattered to the blood-slick floor. He ran to the shelf in the middle of the room, nearly slipping in the gunk splattered four feet in every direction. Once he had pushed the shelf in place before the window, Ben fell against it and used all his weight to keep it in place. His fingernails dug into the wood at either end, hanging on for dear life as the walkers beat and pushed against him. This was the closest he'd ever been to the undead, and everything about it caused a fear in him unlike anything he had ever felt before. Skeletal arms with graying flesh reached through the shelves, just inches from his vulnerable back. Hot, reeking breath accompanied excited moans as a select few almost fit their heads through.

Now that he was facing the pharmacy rather than the window, Ben's heart sank as he saw Jerome hadn't made any progress with the gate. He was still running from one end to the other, yanking desperately on the bars. "Jerome, come on!" Ben shouted, not caring his voice was many octaves higher than usual. Edges of shelves pressed harshly against his shoulders. The whole unit lurched forward with him still attached more than once, and he had to slam himself backwards to keep the walkers at bay. With each passing moment, Ben felt more and more certain that it was just a matter of time before they plowed inside.

Jerome grumbled something under his breath. His trembling fingers knotted into his dark brown hair. He turned back to Ben, a dark look of remorse etched across his ghostly pale face. "I think it was electric and locked inside the wall," he said, pausing to take a few deep, hitching breaths. "It's not going to open."


	5. Five: Adapt

"What do you mean it's not going to open?" The world around Ben seemed to crumble. This just couldn't be happening, it _couldn't_. They couldn't die, it couldn't end like this. For a moment his strength seemed to completely fall away and Ben was lurched forward along with the shelf, but he quickly recovered and reared back into place. "It fucking _has_ to open, Jerome!" Ben shouted over the increasingly loud chorus of moans.

"We're either leaving the way we came in or we're not leaving." Jerome's voice was surprisingly level. He paced back and forth before the gate, hands still on his head.

"Figure something out," Ben snarled, a sudden burst of rage making his ears go hot. He wasn't sure how much of his anger was directed at Jerome and how much was directed at the walkers, but Jerome was too calm for his liking. Didn't he understand their lives were at stake? "I can't stay here forever," Ben said, and no sooner than the words were out of his mouth, a pale hand slipped between the shelves and clamped around his shoulder. Ben gasped and tried to jerk himself out of its grip, but the walker had pinned him against the shelf. Overgrown fingernails pressed into his shoulder. Every muscle in Ben's body went rigid, his breaths quickening into ragged, wheezy puffs. "Get it off!" He shrieked, imagining those yellowed teeth closing in towards his neck. "_Get it off_!"

Jerome was across the room in three bounds, knife in hand. He raised the long blade high and jammed it somewhere inches from Ben's head. Something slick and tepid splattered against the side of his face, accompanied by a very wet _squelch_ sound as Jerome withdrew his knife. "Thanks," Ben croaked, his throat scratchy and dry. "Think you can do that twenty or thirty more times?"

"I guess we're gonna find out." Jerome's jaw clenched. His troubled brown eyes fluttered closed for only a moment as he took a deep breath, then got to work knifing skulls as they appeared through the shelves. Ben tried hard not to flinch as Jerome stabbed over and over again, never more than a few inches from him. Each stab was punctuated by a _squelch_ and a soft _thud_ shortly after as the walkers slid to the ground outside. The stench of death and blood was growing stronger every minute. There never seemed to be more than a few seconds between them; as soon as one dropped, another took its place. It wasn't long before Jerome's stabs became sluggish, weakened by fatigue.

"How's your aim?" Ben asked. "Are you any good with that revolver?"

Jerome glanced towards the revolver, still laying on the service desk, like he'd forgotten it was there. "Not really," he replied, wincing and grunting as he swung his knife forward and dropped another walker. "I shot a gun for the first time since I was fourteen _yesterday_, Ben."

"This isn't going fast enough. I don't think you'll draw anymore in if you start shooting. Just try to miss me, will you?" Ben cut him a look and edged towards the left, keeping his arms as low as he could to stay out of the walker's reach. Jerome exhaled heavily and exchanged his knife for the revolver. He stepped closer to the shelf, aimed, and fired less than a foot from Ben's head. They both jumped and Ben bit back a yell. His ears rang as if someone was blowing a whistle and the side of his head was drenched, wetness heavy against his cheek.

Jerome tensed more and more with each shot. His face was stone, showing no emotion, but Ben could see the turmoil warring in his eyes. Just as he seemed to fall into a rhythm and neither of them were flinching as much when he fired, the bullets ran out. Jerome pulled the trigger twice, getting nothing but soft clicks in response. He cursed and sprinted to the desk where he'd left his backpack, tearing it open. Two boxes of ammo seemed like more than enough that morning, but with what faced them Ben began to wonder how long it would last. As soon as Jerome had removed the tray from the box, it slipped out of his trembling hands. Fifty bullets scattered across the desk and the floor, some rolling as far as the blood and glass spill at Ben's feet. Jerome's head whipped helplessly from the empty box in his hand and the bullets strewn throughout the room. "Shit, shit…" he cursed, pausing for a few moments before he crouched down and started picking up the bullets.

"Just open the other box!" Ben exclaimed. He was quickly learning Jerome wasn't the best person to have around in a crisis even if he wasn't outwardly panicked. Jerome nodded fervently and moved back to his bag. He opened the second box of ammo, loaded his weapon, then snapped the chamber shut and started towards the window. He stopped short after only a couple steps, attention fixed on something behind Ben. "What is it?" Ben asked, trying and failing to look over his shoulder.

"It's a kid." Jerome gulped. "A little girl. She...she must not be older than nine or ten."

"Well, it's not _your_ kid," Ben grunted, straining with the effort of keeping the shelf in place. Jerome gave him a long, dirty look and resumed his shooting stance. Once again, Ben cringed at the first few shots, heat whizzing past his ear with each one. Jerome quickly ran out of bullets again; he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful, refilled the chamber, and continued. Soon, Ben stopped hearing the _thump_ of bodies sliding back out the window. The mounting heap of corpses outside must have finally gotten too high. Jerome practically turned green at the realization that they had to be pulled back inside, and Ben assisted as much as he could, though that wasn't much with both hands still clinging to their barrier. Daylight started to peek through the thinning sea of walkers, and by that time Ben and Jerome were ankle-deep in corpses.

Even after it seemed Jerome had taken down the last one, neither he nor Ben moved. Ben strained his ringing ears to listen for any signs of undead beyond the window. He nearly melted in relief when he didn't hear anything. There was no groaning or moaning or any of the other terrible sounds they made. In fact, it seemed everything had fled the area. No birds were chirping, either. "I think that's it," Ben said, smiling feebly. He stepped forward and allowed the shelf to slam onto the body-lined linoleum floor.

Jerome wiped his hands down the front of his coat and deflated at the bloody streaks they left. "Let's get the hell out of here," he said, snatching up his backpack.

They wasted no time leaving the pharmacy, and Ben drove until there wasn't a walker in sight. He was wasting gasoline as well as time, but he feared he would lose his mind if he didn't get away from the business districts. When he found himself on a residential street, Ben rolled up to the curb and shut the engine off. Although the neighborhood was free of walkers, it was pitiful. Several of the houses had boarded up windows. All of the lawns were knee-high and filled with withered weeds. Remnants of a lifestyle long gone littered the yards and driveways. Toys and lawn furniture lay throughout the neighborhood, faded from the relentless elements and sunlight. Although he was physically away from the pharmacy, everything that happened there was still at the front of Ben's mind. Especially just how close they came to dying. None of his previous expeditions had taken such a bad turn, and he felt similar to when he killed a walker for the very first time. Lost. Hopeless. Unsure where to turn. Only this time, he had the added guilt to deal with. If he turned around and went back to camp empty handed, what would happen to Kate? He needed something to buy time until he could figure out a more long-term solution. He needed _her_, the real her. He couldn't allow her to live out the rest of her days trapped in a mental prison, she deserved better than that.

"I think it's the explosion." Jerome said, jarring Ben out of his musing. Whereas on their drive to Fairbanks he'd sat upright the whole time and seemed rather optimistic, he now slouched in the seat with his head resting against the window, staring out towards the street.

"What about it?"

"If noise is what gets their attention, you can't get much noisier than an explosion," Jerome explained. "That pharmacy was only a couple blocks from the plaza."

Ben blinked slowly as the puzzle pieces fell into place, equal parts shocked and intrigued. He hadn't given the explosion a single thought on the way into the city, chalking it up as a one-time thing. Certainly nothing that could affect him, nearly a day after it had happened. But Jerome was right. Something as simple as a raised voice could get a walker's unyielding attention. An explosion _really_ must have riled them up. "Shit, Jerome." Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't you think of that _before_ we drove into it?" Jerome shrugged and didn't say anything further. The quiet dragged on for several minutes, uninterrupted until Ben gave a long sigh. "Listen, man," Ben began, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Around the time you had to dive across the room and pull a walker off me, I realized I never should have asked you to do this in the first place."

"If you didn't ask, I would have offered." Jerome's head whipped towards Ben, his brows furrowed. "I don't regret coming or anything like that."

Ben shook his head and thumped a fist against the seat. After everything they had been through, practically a near death experience, Jerome hadn't caught on. Ben _used_ him, just like he always had. "I only asked in the first place because I knew you wouldn't say no," he admitted, feeling a rush of relief at getting the truth out in the open. To his surprise, Jerome didn't react at all, which led him to believe he already knew. Of course he did. Maybe he always had. "I've realized over the past couple months that I was a shitty boss," Ben said. "How much extra work did you do that I didn't even pay you for? How many winters were you and me the only ones that didn't leave the mine? It wasn't right back then, but you could die because of something like that now." He paused, waiting until Jerome finally looked him in the eye to continue. "You have a family, I _never_ should have asked this of you."

"None of that stuff matters." Jerome pushed himself into a sitting position. "Don't be so hard on yourself. So I'm not very good with the word 'no'." He shrugged, a faint smile crossing his face. "I meant what I said, I don't regret this one bit."

Ben sighed, wondering whether he should just leave the conversation where it stood or say what was on his mind. He was starting to think there was a bigger picture here, one he hadn't realized that morning. Everyone had changed in some ways since the outbreak. Ben himself knew he wasn't nearly as trusting or generous as he once had been. Jerome, on the other hand, seemed to be the same kindhearted, generous man as he always had been. In Ben's experience, those kinds of people got eaten alive at the beginning - literally. "Jerome…" Ben began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You're a good guy, but - "

"Don't say that." Jerome's voice was too quiet for the fire in his words. "Don't ever say that, alright? Good guys don't do the things I've done."

Ben snorted. He couldn't imagine Jerome doing anything that would justify him being so hard on himself. He'd only seen Jerome angry a handful of times and didn't see why a simple phrase like 'you're a good guy' would tick him off so much. Assuming this had to be about walkers, Ben chuckled. "Killing walkers is what it is. That doesn't make anyone a bad person, it's just self defense."

"I'm not talking about walkers." Jerome groaned and shifted so he was facing the window again. "I left some parts of my story out last night. When we were trying to leave the Fort, one of the National Guard guys grabbed me. People were shooting and screaming...I could barely hear him. He just wouldn't let me go." Jerome puffed out a slow breath. His next words came out in a tumble, like the faster he said them the sooner this torture would be over. "I stabbed him, Ben, I stabbed him right in the guts."

This revelation rendered Ben speechless. He would have never guessed in a million years that _Jerome Dufour_, of all people, would be the first person in his group to take a human life. He was the type of person to be torn apart by that kind of guilt. Of course it was easier said than done, but if the roles were reversed, Ben didn't think he'd struggle with it so much. "I said it once, I'll say it again...it is what it is." Jerome scowled at him incredulously, as though he couldn't believe his ears. "You survived, didn't you?" Ben pressed. "_Didn't you_? Then nothing else matters. Remember that. You are months behind the rest of us. That damn Fort coddled you, left you unprepared for what it's like out here."

Jerome crossed his arms over his chest and sank further into the seat. "Let's just get going, alright? Onto the next one."

Before he could stop it, one thought hit Ben hard enough to take his breath: _he's not going to make it._

* * *

In the two months since the outbreak, Rachel Dufour had experienced more, ran more, and fought for her life more than she ever imagined she would. The first few weeks at Fort McAdams weren't so bad. Daily meals at seven, noon, and five, on the dot. Freedom to walk around and visit other barracks. Periodic updates with messages from Governor Eisenberg. After that, it was all downhill. Though a small part of her still wished they would have tried to find her sister, Rachel had talked herself into believing everything would be fine once they got to Red Fox Creek.

In her eyes that couldn't have been farther from the truth. For one thing, she never thought they would be sharing the place with fifteen other people, almost all of them total strangers. Sure, they did the same thing at the Fort, but not quite so intimately. She had only been awake for three hours before she saw Jake Turner in his underwear and almost walked in on Marvin in the bathroom. Maybe she should've just been grateful there was food, shelter, and relative safety, but there was still something that just left an unsettled feeling in her gut. She hadn't even been in camp for a day but this arrangement was going to get old fast, that much she was sure of.

Rachel sat at the dinette booth in the Wallace trailer shuffling a deck of cards. For all of the ways she still felt uncomfortable in their new 'home', she could appreciate that this was the most normal thing she'd done in weeks. Kate sat across the table, waiting patiently. What started out as a brief visit had turned into babysitting. Thirty minutes and counting if the owl-shaped wall clock was correct. Dean had come to the door and asked Marvin if he wanted to go hunting, and next thing Rachel knew she was in the middle of a gin tournament.

"Well, I've won two and you've won two. I guess this is the championship game," Rachel said, smiling politely. She dealt their hands and lifted hers, peering over the top of the cards to observe Kate. Although she'd been on high alert waiting for her to show some symptoms, she'd yet to see anything but sassy, talkative, ordinary Kate. All through breakfast she participated in conversation and even helped clean up. She hadn't seen Kate act unusual at all since arriving in camp, and was starting to wonder if Ben knew what he was talking about.

Kate studied her cards for a few moments. Her long, blonde hair was in a single braid draped over her shoulder and she twirled the end every now and again. She hesitantly played a card, set the others aside, then interlocked her fingers. "So," she sighed, locking Rachel in a rather scrutinizing glare. "Let's cut the shit. Either you know something you shouldn't or I'm even crazier than I thought."

"What?" Rachel questioned. This outburst had caught her so off guard that all she could do was blink at Kate, mouth ajar. Something in Kate's tone told her this was a totally coherent moment that had nothing to do with her illness, and nothing Marvin said had prepared her for it.

"I think you know _exactly_ what," Kate retorted. "You're not very good at this. I've seen you staring at me every time you think I'm not looking. You and Marvin have that same terrified-deer-in-the-headlights look." She snorted. A sardonic little grin spread across her face. "It's kind of insulting, honestly."

The jig was up as far as Rachel was concerned. Clearly they had all underestimated Kate's awareness, and she didn't see any way to keep up the charade without angering her further. "I don't think of you any differently," she said kindly. "I'm sorry if I've offended you, I'm just doing what Marvin asked."

"Ah." Kate pursed her lips. She slowly picked her cards up and started sorting through them. "So, who else knows?"

"Jerome." Rachel watched carefully for any signs of increased agitation, but Kate hardly reacted at all. "That's it, though. No one else." Neither of them said anything else for several long minutes. Rachel thought the tension could've been cut with a knife but maybe it was just her, nervously waiting for Kate to snap again. Beyond the window, trees danced in a stiff gust of wind, branches scraping faintly against the trailer.

"Did he honestly think I didn't know my medication was running out?" Kate laughed, clutching her cards with one hand and rubbing her temple with the other. "I've taken it every day since I was seventeen. I know what it means when I don't have it."

Rachel wasn't thrilled to be talking about this again, but Kate's statement did pique her curiosity. From what Jerome had said, Ben forgot all about her 'condition'. Kate may have been a stubborn, private person but she wasn't vindictive. "Why didn't you say something before, then?" Rachel asked softly, fighting against the feeling like she was stepping onto paper-thin ice, broaching territory she had no right to broach. "Ben had forgotten all about your pills...so why did you just let them run out?"

She leaned back against the booth and directing her attention outside. "When I do things like talk about rainbows or smash Marvin's watch, a small part of me knows it's wrong. Yet in the moment I believe it, I _have_ to believe it. The voices in my head are nothing but rational to me when I'm...like that." Her lips tightened into a thin line. "I thought I could handle living without medication. I mean, I've been through therapy. I know how to talk myself through it." She turned back to Rachel with a remorseful look etched across her rigid face. "It was kind of an experiment, I guess. Because now I know. My friends and family are going to die because of me. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day they will." Rachel's mouth fell open in shock and she started to argue, but Kate continued, talking over her. "There's no place in this world for the mentally ill, Rachel. There barely was before."

Rachel was at a loss for words. She never was very good at reassuring people or saying what they needed to hear, and all she knew for certain was how sorry she felt for Kate. To struggle with something like that, and feel like such a burden...she couldn't imagine. "I could see you thinking that way if it was just you and Ben," Rachel said slowly, more or less making things up as she went along. "But you're in a group. I don't understand why you want to hide this from everyone, I think they'd all be happy to help you."

"I don't want _help_, Rachel!" Kate spat, then growled and pressed her face into her hands. "Look," she began after another quiet moment, an extra note of irritation in her tone. "You don't get it and I don't expect you to, but trust me, I'm a liability and even if they wouldn't see it that way now, it's a matter of time." She sat up again, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "I've figured out by now Ben went to get my medication. That's bad enough. He's risking his life to keep me reigned in for a month or two, tops." She leaned forward with her elbows on the table, locking Rachel into a wide-eyed glare. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you think this mess, this 'end of days' _crap_ is going away anytime soon."

A single gunshot rang out from somewhere very nearby, surely within camp. Both women flinched and without another thought, Rachel was on her feet and heading out the door. She sailed down the steps, stumbling over a root in the clearing and catching herself against another trailer. "Emma?!" She hollered, frantically scanning the camp for her daughter. After breakfast, Aaliyah invited Emma to play again. Rachel was reluctant to let her do anything that wasn't within fifteen feet of the dining trailer, but Keisha offered to watch them. Relying on other moms now and again was something very familiar to Rachel, so she agreed. Now, she was feeling nothing but dread and regret as Emma was nowhere to be seen within the chaos taking place. Those in camp were all on their feet and wide-eyed, talking quickly and staring towards the west end of the clearing. "Where is my daughter?" Rachel demanded, storming towards Samantha, the nearest person.

"I-I don't know," Samantha replied, taking a couple steps back. "All I know is there was a gunshot and they said…" she trailed off as the door to Lauren and Jake's shared trailer swung open. Clarence herded Aaliyah, Emma, and Adrian in front of him, the older two looking terrified.

"They just shot a hole in the roof with one of the forty-fives," Clarence said, gruffly holding Aaliyah in place even after the other two children had run off towards their parents.

"Emma," Rachel repeated, more shocked than panicked this time. A hundred questions were immediately on the tip of her tongue, and she had to grit her teeth in order to stop herself from losing it in front of half a dozen strangers. Emma trudged over, looking anywhere but directly at her mother. There was something strange about her demeanor that Rachel couldn't quite put her finger on. While Emma certainly seemed shook up, she also seemed...unapologetic? Maybe a little insolent, with the way she rolled her eyes so quickly Rachel almost missed it? She stood with her arms crossed and finally faced Rachel, dark brown eyes almost daring her mother to say something.

Keisha pushed past the other survivors and took Aaliyah by the arm. Her nostrils flared with every breath. Rachel barely knew her, but she could tell that woman was furious. Looking remorsefully from Rachel to Brandon, she said, "I left for five minutes to use the bathroom. I thought they would be okay. I'm very sorry." With that she stomped off, dragging Aaliyah alongside her. Clarence sternly told Jake to keep their door locked from now on, then followed his family into their tent.

As everyone began to go their separate ways, Rachel was once again at a loss for what to do. She found herself longing for Jerome's presence. He had much more patience and would've been better suited to handle the situation. Rachel wished she could have waited for him to get back before talking to Emma, but it seemed too urgent to wait even another hour. "Let's go," Rachel said. She lead Emma into the trees, where they could talk without fear of eavesdroppers. She ignored her daughter's whines and protests and didn't stop until she was certain they wouldn't be interrupted or overhead. A tree had fallen long ago and created a natural bench, so Rachel sat down and motioned for Emma to do the same. "What is wrong with you?" She spluttered as soon as the girl sat down, unable to stop herself.

"I just wanted to look," Emma retorted. "It's stupid, we're the ones that worked to get those guns. They're _ours_. Why should Jake and Lauren get them? We don't even know them!"

It took Rachel a moment to even register what she was talking about. The night before, when they had started unpacking their things from the bus, Clarence had practically done a happy jig when he saw the arsenal they had accumulated from the plaza. Neither he nor Jerome were comfortable with storing so many guns and ammunition around the kids, so they agreed it made most sense to use Jake and Lauren's trailer for gun storage. Rachel hadn't given it a single thought since then and the fact that her ten-year-old daughter clearly had only fueled her anger. "That is none of your concern," she seethed, just above a whisper. "I don't know what's going on with you but it stops now."

Emma frowned. Her face settled into a mask of irritation and for a moment, she was a spitting image of her father. Except unlike Jerome, Emma rarely held back. She demanded, "Trusting other people to protect us didn't work out so well yesterday, did it Mom?"

Rachel realized with a sickening jolt that they hadn't bothered to talk to Emma and see how she was doing after Fort McAdams. She was so overcome with guilt that she was willing to overlook the disrespectful edge to her daughter's tone. "I'm sorry," she said. "We really should have talked to you more about this. I know you lost friends yesterday and you must have been just as scared as we were." Rachel exhaled slowly, her face drooping with defeat. Emma was a child but she wasn't _stupid_, why did she or Jerome ever think she was oblivious to everything had happened? "Maybe it doesn't seem like it right now, but things are going to be okay here," Rachel said, patting her daughter on the back.

Emma didn't respond right away. She snatched up a stick and fiddled with it, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces. "I'm the one who pulled the trigger," she confessed, biting her lip. "I didn't mean to. I just picked up the gun because I wanted to see what it felt like and…" she trailed off and shrugged. "I feel so stupid, I know we could've gotten hurt. It was my idea, me and Aaliyah just made Adrian come along because we thought he'd tell on us."

"Thank you for telling me the truth." Anguish began to overtake Rachel's anger. She turned away for a moment, willing the burning tears not overflow. None of them were _exactly_ the same people they were before the outbreak, but as far as Rachel knew, Emma had gotten through it unscathed. The only change she'd noticed at all was how quiet and withdrawn Emma had become at Fort McAdams, but she was surrounded by strangers. Now Rachel was left to wonder if Emma had been more scared and aware than she'd let on all along, despite her and Jerome's attempts to spare her innocence. Playing with a gun 'just to see what it felt like' was not the decision of a well-adjusted child.

Rachel turned back to Emma and tried her best to smile. "I suppose I have to be honest with you too, huh?" Her voice cracked and she took a deep, shaky breath. "We're over two months into this and there's no one to turn to anymore, at least here in Fairbanks. The refugee center's gone. We have to rely on each other. That includes everyone, kids and adults. I can't rely on you if you're going to act like this, sneaking around behind our backs. Everybody has a role, and yours is still to be a kid. That's what I need you to do, okay?" She waited until Emma looked her in the eye and nodded to continue. "Play hide and seek with Aaliyah, share her dolls, just be a kid. Me and Papa will protect you, that's _our_ job."

"I won't mess with the guns anymore," Emma said. "I'm sorry."

She was agreeable and seemed genuine enough, but Rachel couldn't help the nagging voice in the back of her mind. _She lied to you once already. She snuck into a stranger's trailer and picked up a gun. She could've shot herself or one of the other kids._ Before her anger returned and she wound up saying more than she really wanted to, Rachel stood up and beckoned Emma to follow suit. "I want you to apologize to Lauren and Jake too. And if there's any way you can help fix that hole, you're going to do it."

"Alright," Emma sighed.

"Let's head back." Rachel lead the way towards camp, weaving around downed trees and forcing her way through the thick foliage. Her heart sank with dread as soon as they reached camp and the Wallace's trailer came into sight. She couldn't think of anything she wanted to do less than go back in there. The day had started out crappy and gone downhill fast, and now all she wanted to do was keep her head down and get settled in. However, she _had_ been instructed to keep an eye on Kate...and surely her own husband and father-in-law knew what they were talking about...or maybe, just maybe, they were overreacting. As a nurse, Rachel had seen that plenty of times. Sick loved ones brought out the worry-warts in everybody, and after the conversation she'd had with Kate, returning to her babysitting duty seemed like it'd be more of an insult than anything else at this point. As Rachel followed Emma across camp, she spared a glance at the Wallace's trailer, then shrugged. Kate could continue her gin tournament alone or rope Marvin into it when he got back.

* * *

Jerome trudged being Ben into yet another pharmacy. This was his third one in just over a day and he was certain he could die a happy man without ever stepping into another one. This building wasn't as picked over or vandalized as the others had been but it was small, with just one room not much bigger than the parking lot. What few items remained on the shelves weren't worth taking, and after all of five minutes inside, Ben had already moved to the wall of abandoned prescriptions.

"I'll be right back," Jerome said, tossing Ben his flashlight. He walked to the back of the shop, where the restrooms were, and pushed the men's room door open. The only light came from a small window above the stalls and it was so eerily silent quiet Jerome was sure he could've heard a pin drop. After finishing his business, Jerome went over to the sinks. Having brains, guts, and blood all over him was something he didn't think he could ever get used to. He quietly hummed a tune and turned the faucet on. A weak, pathetic stream of water flowed out until it waned to just a few drips then halted completely. Jerome stopped humming and stared at it in disbelief. He tried the other two sinks and received similar results. He frowned at the pitiful puddle for a moment, then returned to the main part of the pharmacy. "How long has it been since the water stopped running?" he asked, coming to lean against the reception desk.

Ben sniggered, turning a prescription bag over in his hands. "Just since you went in there," he replied, cutting Jerome an amused glance that faded as soon as he saw the confused, dismayed look on his friend's face. He cleared his throat and explained, "Well, everything has been dark for a while now. No light, no water...gas has been pretty screwy too, but I suppose you know that. For the first few weeks it just depended on where you went but whatever kept things running that long is gone now."

Jerome nodded, finding once again he was lost for words. Why on earth did he think there would there be running water? He knew good and well that Fort McAdams only had water because of reserves and electricity because of generators. Shaking his head shamefully, he moved to the nearest aisle even though he'd already combed it over once. "We really didn't know how good we had it at Fort McAdams," he said, looking over a few items but not really recognizing them. It was bad enough he was two steps behind everyone else in terms of survival, but the realization that he was also naive as all hell was a bitter pill to swallow.

"Don't sweat it," Ben said. "I'm hoping we'll be able to find some generators for the next place we settle. We can make our own Fort."

Jerome's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. He whirled around so quickly he had to brace himself against the reception desk to avoid toppling over. "Next place?" he questioned, struggling to keep his voice level. "Why would there be a next place?"

Ben sighed. He blinked, regarding Jerome with an expression of solemn irritation. "You didn't think we were staying at Red Fox all winter, did you? What's gonna happen when the temperature drops to twenty below and we're all sleeping in tents or trailers? When we can't get to the city to find food because we're snowed in?" Jerome's shoulders sagged as the realization settled in that his faith in Red Fox had been for six people, not over a dozen, and he had hardly given winter any thought at all. Before he could think about it too long, Ben continued. "There's no need to worry about it right now. I figure we won't have to start really looking for somewhere new for a few weeks. I keep my eyes peeled whenever I'm out, but I haven't seen anywhere yet that could sustain so many people." Ben took another prescription off the shelf and he grinned as soon as he saw the label. He pulled a bottle of pills from a paper baggy and shook them at Jerome. "Look what I found."

"Is it the Tryptophan?" Jerome felt the darkness that had settled over him start to lighten as hope shone through. Good things were still possible, after all. He had to believe his and Ben's trip wouldn't be for nothing.

"_Thorazine_," Ben corrected with a laugh. "No, but close enough. This is what the doctor recommended when me and Kate were going to try - " he stopped talking and his smile faltered for just a moment. "I'd forgotten all about this, it was so long ago. The important thing is that I've heard of it and I know it'll work for Kate." Both men jumped when a biter threw itself against the window behind them. Jerome had to assume this had once been a business woman, judging by the beige pantsuit now full of blood and rips. The biter groaned desperately and glanced between Ben and Jerome like it wasn't sure who it wanted to eat first. Ben's face seemed to turn a shade paler and he gulped. To Jerome, he continued, "We might as well go. I doubt I'm gonna find any more of this."

"Are you sure?" Jerome side-eyed the rather small bottle. "How long is that going to last her?"

"Long enough." Ben fished the truck keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Jerome. "You drive."


	6. Six: Gone

**TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains mentions and descriptions of suicide. If this is in any way distressing or triggering to you, please do not read on. Remember this is a work of fiction and suicide is never the answer. Reach out if you're struggling, you're worth it.**

* * *

Clarence abruptly threw the ATV into a sharp turn. Rachel shrieked and clung to the seat for dear life. Tree limbs cracked against the vehicle's frame as they hurtled down the path beside the creek. In the bed of the ATV, Dean reached forward and gripped the seats, eyes wide as saucers behind his glasses. Rachel tried to tell Clarence to slow down, but the chilly air seemed to lock up her lungs and there was little hope of being heard over all the noise anyway. "Kate!" Clarence bellowed, peering through the trees on either side of the path.

Between the three of them, Rachel, Clarence, and Dean must have already called her name a dozen times. Rachel couldn't help but fear the worst. Guilt was already swelled in her gut, weighing her down as though someone had tied cinder blocks around her ankles. She should've just listened to Marvin. She should've just stayed with Kate. Instead, Marvin found the trailer empty when he returned from hunting, and Rachel hadn't seen Kate for over an hour. Nobody had even seen her leave. Somehow, to everybody's confusion, she'd slipped past Samantha on guard duty and everyone else filtering in and out of camp.

Two bulldozers, a backhoe, and other heavy machinery obstructed the path ahead. Clarence slammed on the breaks. The backend of the ATV skidded through the slick mud. Rachel knew this was as far as Red Fox 'territory' stretched, and it wasn't likely Kate had gone beyond this point anyhow, unless she'd traveled at a full speed run the entire time. "She has to be closer to camp," Rachel said, taking deep gulps of air as she caught her breath. "We must have passed her."

"We've gone up and down this creek twice." Clarence ran a hand over his overgrown buzz cut, displacing the various leaves and twigs that clung to his coarse, graying hair. Muscles in his neck bulged as he clenched his jaw. "I don't get it, where the hell is she? She wasn't in the scrapyard, she's not along the creek…"

Dean poked his head between the seats. "Maybe Marvin found her on the other side," he suggested.

"He would have radioed by now." Clarence's hand found the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt and patted it thoughtfully. As his burning gaze flashed to Rachel, she had to look away. The anger in eyes intimidated her, and she didn't want him to know that. "What is wrong with ya'll?" he questioned, curling his lip like a chihuahua ready to snap. "Did you think we were gonna execute her on sight if we found out she was schizophrenic?"

Rachel winced as though she'd been slapped. She had _really_ screwed things up. Ben and Kate didn't want anyone else to know about her condition, but Marvin had been forced to tell the others. In an hour she'd managed to lose a mentally ill woman who happened to be her friend, _and_ indirectly be the reason her biggest secret got out. Still, she'd never asked to be part of this, nor did she have any say, and because of that, Clarence's self-righteous attitude was making her bristle. "I have nothing to do with it," Rachel said indignantly, slowly lifting her head. "I was just doing what I was asked from Ben, Marvin, my husband, Kate…" she counted off the people involved on her fingers.

"Just following orders, huh?" Clarence sniped. "This isn't the Gestapo. Around here if you know something that can affect everyone else, you say something."

"Okay, I've been here a day. Have you thought of that? Has _anyone_?" Rachel didn't even allow him time to answer before she switched gears and demanded, "What exactly are you so worked up about anyway?"

"Ben _lied_," Clarence replied, his voice rising towards a yell. "Not just to me, but to everybody. Not only did he tell us she was 'just dehydrated', but I asked him directly if something else was up and he said no. I've been helping keep this group alive from the start, and what do I get for it?"

Rachel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "This wasn't a personal attack against you. He was looking out for Kate."

"Well, now we're 'looking out' for Kate," Clarence retorted. "Half our people are out scouring the woods when we should be doing some of the million things we need to do to keep the camp going." He started to relax, then snapped his fingers as if he suddenly remembered something. "Oh, _and_ Ben said he'd take a walkie talkie and he didn't do that either. So now I can't even tell him to get his ass back here and help track down his wife."

"Enough," Dean interjected. "Now is not the time for this."

At first, Rachel had been less than enthusiastic about going into the woods with two strangers, but now she was thankful Dean had tagged along. Somebody had to be the voice of reason, and obviously that person wasn't going to be Clarence - or her. Rachel wasn't sure if they were supposed to be brainstorming what to do next, or just be quiet to void more fighting, but what started out as a pause in conversation had dragged into awkward minutes until Clarence spoke again. "Maybe we should check the scrapyard again. That's where she went last time and we don't even know when or how she left camp, so we might've gotten there before her," he said.

"That's not a bad idea," Dean said. "I don't have any better ones."

"Then hang on." Clarence drove just far enough forward so he'd have enough room to pull a u-turn. Slower than before, they traveled back the way they came, then drove down an unmarked path. Instead of dirt like the other path, this one was mostly undergrowth, flattened by tire tracks. Clarence slowed to a stop. The chain-link fence surrounding the scrapyard bowed under the weight of low tree branches and tall, climbing weeds. It was most likely silver at one time, but many years of exposure had left the fence a rusty brown color. Rachel climbed from the ATV and followed Clarence through the creaky gate.

"Kate," Clarence called for her once again, then listened for any movement. When only the chirping of birds could be heard, he heaved a heavy sigh and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute…" Dean climbed out of the ATV and stopped at the gate, eyes narrowed and focused on something beyond Clarence. He pointed towards a long pile of junk near the very back of the scrapyard. A pair of feet were sticking out from behind a tall pile of spare car parts. Rachel inhaled sharply and clapped her hands over her mouth. Those were _definitely_ Kate's white tennis shoes.

Clarence said, "You two stay here," and charged forward.

If Kate was hurt, Rachel wanted to be there. She hurried behind Clarence and tried to get around him when he abruptly stopped and threw his arm out. "Let me see," Rachel ordered, frantically bobbing up and down to try and get under his arm. She finally pushed past him and instantly froze. Kate lay unmoving in the dirt. Blood ran in trails down both of her arms and had begun to pool on the ground. A kitchen knife had fallen from her limp hand. Shock and despair almost brought Rachel to her knees. Of all the ways she expected to find Kate, this scenario never even entered her mind. She seemed like her usual self all morning. In fact, Rachel was surprised at just how much of herself she was. Why would she do this to her husband, her father-in-law, and her friends? Why would she do it to herself? "Oh my God," Rachel croaked. Her face crumpled and she folded her arms over her middle as she began to sob. There was nothing to be done. She'd seen enough people like Kate dragged into the emergency room by their distraught family members to know it was far too late to save her.

"You don't need to look anymore," Clarence said firmly. He took Rachel by the shoulders and steered her towards the gate, then unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. "I'm going to tell Marvin we found her and to come back to camp, and that's all I'm going to say. He needs to hear about this face to face."

"Shouldn't we cover her up or something?" Dean asked, frowning sadly.

"This is a family matter. We'll let Marvin decide what to do until Ben gets back."

Tears blurred Rachel's vision and she almost tripped more than once on her way out of the scrapyard. Her chest was tighter than ever and with every breath, she felt it would be her last, but another was always ripped from her lungs by a sob. Nothing felt real, like she was living a nightmare. Rachel gasped and hung her head, silently pleading whatever higher power was listening to turn the clock back once she opened her eyes. Of course, her prayers were not answered, and Rachel only wept harder as the weight of the situation settled on her shoulders. Once Clarence and Dean joined her in the ATV, Clarence drove much slower than before. The sense of urgency was gone, replaced by a nearly palpable cloud of misery that left all three of them without anything to say.

Marvin was waiting when they pulled into camp. He paced back and forth in the middle of camp, drumming his fingers on the picnic table as he passed. He hurried over and stood at Clarence's side as soon as the ATV was parked. "Well?" He demanded, his confused glare flicking to each of the passengers in turn. "Where is Kate? You said you found her." His gaze doubled back to Rachel's tearstained face, getting a good look for the first time, and his face dropped. Barely above a whisper, he rasped, "Where is she?"

Dean climbed out of the ATV and glanced anxiously behind him. All of the camp had assembled at the news of Kate's disappearance, and now they stood nearby, waiting expectantly. Lowering his voice, Dean said, "She's gone, Marvin. We found her at the scrapyard. She, uh...took her own life."

The breath caught in Marvin's throat. Ever so briefly, his bottom lip quivered and his fists clenched. Then, just as quickly as the emotion came, it went. He sniffed and asked, "Did you just leave her where you found her?"

"We didn't think we should do anything until we talked to you," Clarence said.

"Just tell us what you want done," Dean offered quietly. "You shouldn't have to deal with this so...intimately. Think of us as morticians."

Marvin nodded once. They began to separate and Rachel couldn't fight the feeling that this wasn't right. There had to be more. Kate deserved more than a shallow grave in the woods, and it didn't seem right to leave everything up to Ben and Marvin. "We should do something," she said. "A headstone, or - "

"You stay out of it," Marvin snarled, the change in his tone so ferocious and hostile that anyone that had started to walk away turned back, eyes wide and mouths agape. The fire in his voice left no room for argument and Rachel wasn't about to try. Her feet felt like they were rooted in place, and it was as if she'd shrunk to the size of an ant when Marvin jabbed a crooked, trembling finger at her and spat, "_You_ have done enough for Kate."

* * *

Brandon pulled the ATV into the scrapyard and pulled on the pair of gardening gloves he'd borrowed from Keisha. With all the drama surrounding Kate's death, he figured the least he could do to help out was deal with the body. Among everyone in camp he had the least connection to her, which he hoped would make this 'mortician mission' that much easier. He stepped out of the vehicle and went to the bed to retrieve a large tarp Clarence had dug up from somewhere within the dining trailer. Pulling it out of the ATV was awkward and noisy, but with Dean's assistance he made it all the way to...her. He'd seen plenty of dead bodies over the past few months, but there was something especially sad about seeing someone who had been walking around perfectly fine the night before. Her exposed forearms were sliced extensively, from wrist to the crook of her elbow.

Brandon looked away and shook his head, trying to physically push out the somber thoughts that were creeping in. He had to think of this as a job...a very weird, depressing job. He said, "I'll lay the tarp out then we'll put her on it and go from there, okay?"

"Alright." Dean pulled a pair of gloves from his back pocket and took a shuddering breath. "Let's get this over with." He braced his hands under her armpits while Brandon got her legs. She was much heavier than Brandon expected, and he grunted out a few curse words from the effort of carrying her. Their trek to the tarp was stilted and when they finally reached it, Brandon's muscles trembled with the effort of lowering her gently. Dean hovered for a moment, then awkwardly crossed her arms over her abdomen. When he noticed Brandon's confused expression, he explained, "It seems more professional than just tossing her on there and rolling her up like a burrito."

"Whatever floats your boat, dude." Brandon worked quickly rather than meticulously. He took each corner of the tarp and pulled it across her until she was mostly covered. To their dismay, the tarp was smaller than expected. The top of Kate's head, her arms, and her feet peeked out from the blue covering. One of them had to walk backwards on the way back to the ATV, and Brandon decided he was probably the more coordinated of the two. He and Dean reclaimed their posts and lifted the body. Brandon kept his arms firmly under Kate's knees, unable to stop himself from cringing every time her feet hit him in the ribs. Brandon peered over his shoulder periodically to make sure he wasn't going to trip over or run into anything. Right as they went through the gate, Kate's legs shifted. Brandon halted and looked her up and down. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she moved. Not that her legs were simply jostled as they transported her, but _she moved_. But that couldn't be...anybody whose wrists looked like that had to be long dead.

"I felt it too," Dean said quietly.

A raspy intake of breath from within the tarp accompanied more movements, and this time there was no mistaking that Kate was the cause. "Put her down!" Brandon dropped her legs and reached for his gun, growling when his hands found nothing but his own hip. At Clarence's insistence, he and Carmen handed in their guns the night before. Dean lowered Kate's torso to the ground, but when he went to stand up, an arm reached from the tarp and stiff fingers latched onto his sleeve. Dean shouted and jumped backwards, dragging Kate with him.

Brandon grabbed Dean by the back of his coat and heaved him backwards. Rather than separating the two like he hoped, all three of them tumbled to the ground. Kate crawled from the tarp, her lifeless yet ravenous eyes zeroed in on Dean. Before he could right himself, Kate was on top of him, her face a mere foot from his. Dean caught her around the throat and squeezed, only quieting her moans to a gurgle. Brandon scrambled to his feet and surged to the nearest junk pile. He grabbed the first thing he saw, which was an old fire extinguisher. He took it by the hose and swung as hard as he could towards the back of Kate's head. The canister rang loudly when it connected with her skull, but Kate barely faltered.

"Do something!" Dean wailed. He wrapped his legs around Kate's and tried in vain to get an advantage over her. Brandon returned to the pile, his eyes darting around wildly for anything heavy. All he saw was scrap. Small pieces of metal, old machinery and things he couldn't even identify. Nothing that looked remotely blunt enough to crush a skull. When he finally spotted an old, rusty engine wedged at the bottom of a scrap heap, he dropped the fire extinguisher and ran over to it.

Brandon gripped the engine tightly and lifted it up in one swift move, tottering from side to side under the weight. He turned around just as Kate sank her teeth into Dean's bicep. Dean screamed louder than Brandon had ever heard anyone scream. Kate reared her head back, a hearty chunk of his flesh and muscle dangling from her mouth. She was just about to go back for seconds when Brandon dropped the engine with a deep _thud_, charged forward, and grabbed Kate by the hair. He yanked her backwards and sent her to the ground. She was only stalled for a moment before she found her footing and stood once again. Brandon rushed back to the engine block and grunted as he heaved it upwards, level with his hips. Kate started towards him and he swung his leg into hers, knocking her flat on her back. Brandon hurried forward and allowed the engine to tumble out of arms and drop onto Kate's face. Her skull folded in on itself like a rotted pumpkin. Brain matter sprayed out in every direction, and she did not move again.

Brandon staggered around the mess and fell to his knees at Dean's side, wheezing and shaking. The older man was writhing in the dirt, moaning pitifully. Beneath a thin layer of torn denim, most of the flesh had been ripped away from his arm, exposing tendons and bone. Loose tendrils of skin hung from Dean's bicep, and intertwined with the strips of his coat. "Oh my God," Brandon moaned, his voice cracking. "Why didn't they tell us she was infected?" He wiped a hand down his face, only smearing the slick blood that had splashed onto him. He untied the bandana around his head, releasing the mane of shoulder-length black hair it had kept at bay. "Here, let me…" Dean held still while Brandon wrapped the makeshift tourniquet around his wound. He was paling rapidly and seemed unable to form words.

"Can you stand?" Brandon asked. He rose from his crouched position and waited until Dean had nodded to offer his hand and help him up. "Rachel said she was a nurse, maybe she'll know something that will help."

Just as quickly as they arrived, Brandon and Dean were back into the ATV and hurtling back towards camp. Brandon tried his best to swerve around and bumps or holes, but Dean's face still seemed to be set in a permanent wince. Brandon felt like they were under a spotlight as soon as he drove into camp, instantly garnering the concerned gazes of those who saw them. Both of them were covered in fresh blood and for Dean, the source was obvious. The bandana around his arm, absent from Brandon's head, had become oversaturated with blood on their short drive from the scrapyard.

Behind the half-circle of trailers, Adrian and Carmen sat beneath the spruces, making a town out of rocks, sticks, and whatever else they could find. At the sight of Brandon, Adrian abandoned the project and ran over, his sneakers leaving imprints in the loose dirt. He was at his father's side before he could even step out of the ATV, looking him up and down with big puppy dog eyes. "Daddy, did a monster get you?" he questioned.

Brandon glanced at the muck covering his frontside and grit his teeth. "No, I'm fine. Don't worry," he said, pulling Adrian into his arms and holding him on his hip as he from the ATV. Clarence, who seemed especially troubled by this comment, stormed over with a distinct 'what now' expression that quickly morphed into one of shock when he saw Dean's arm. His mouth fell open, but he said nothing.

Even as Dean spoke, he was careful not to move anything but his mouth. Sweat had already begun to bead on his forehead. "Kate turned when we were carrying her to the ATV," he said quietly.

"That's impossible." Marvin shoved away from the picnic table and stormed over. His eyes widened at the sight of Dean's wound. He frowned and gave a few small shakes of his head. "No...it can't be. S-she wasn't bit or anything, she hasn't even seen a walker in months."

"That's not exactly true." Clarence pursed his lips and clapped Marvin on the shoulder. "There was one at the fence when she was in the scrapyard yesterday. If she was bit, that might explain why she - "

"Right, at the fence." Marvin jerked away from Clarence and took a step back. "How dumb do you think me and Ben are? We shared a trailer for God's sake, don't you think we would've noticed?" Though Brandon wasn't going to say it, he could see Marvin's point. Getting bit wasn't clean or subtle, as evidenced by Dean. Scratches weren't ruled out, yet Brandon had a gut feeling there was something else going on.

"Well, what other explanation is there?" Clarence asked, hands planted on his hips.

"Might be more than you think." Carmen, who had been indifferent thus far, rose from her spot in the dirt. She sauntered over to the ATV. To Brandon, she said, "Do you remember that crazy old bag we met back in Palmer?"

"Yeah, the one who said it doesn't matter how you die, you turn. I thought she was off in the head, but heck…" Brandon trailed off as Clarence and Marvin both turned to him with their eyes wide with disbelief. That same woman had also claimed to speak to Jesus and drank mouthwash, so where was the line? He knew the idea sounded crazy but he couldn't remember the last time anything about the current state of the world made sense anyway.

"You really believe that?" Marvin demanded, his nostrils flaring up at the edges.

Brandon set Adrian back on the ground. This topic was getting a little too dark for his taste. "Go play," he urged quietly, guiding him towards where Aaliyah and Emma were chasing each other around the trailers. He turned to face Marvin and shrugged. "Last I knew, bites and scratches are what do you in. But there's no question Kate turned," he said. "Something had to have caused it, and if she wasn't bitten or scratched, I don't know what to believe."

"In any case, she took a nice chunk out of my arm," Dean said. He used the vehicle's frame to pull himself to his feet, grunting and wincing all the way. No sooner than he was on his feet a faraway look came to his eyes and he staggered to the left. Clarence gasped and leapt forward, catching him just before he started to drop. One hand landed on Dean's bite wound. _That_ brought him back. Dean shrieked, tore himself out of Clarence's grasp and stumbled backwards, cursing and moaning. Overtop Clarence's repeated apologies, Brandon heard two sets of footsteps storming towards them.

"Grandpa?" Courtney stopped so suddenly she almost toppled over herself. Her face was slack with the beginnings of hysteria. Her attention was cemented on the crimson stained bandana tied around his bicep. "_No_," she moaned. She hiccuped twice, then dissolved into long, gasping sobs. Just behind her, Peggy's stormy blue eyes were equally wide for only a moment, then her expression settled into her usual mask of stone.

"Dean, seriously, go see Rachel," Brandon said softly. Even if there was no saving him, there had to be some way to spare him any more pain.

If Dean heard Brandon, he didn't show it. Instead, he hobbled forward, swatting away Clarence's hovering hands, and extended his good arm to cup his granddaughter's tear-stained cheek. "I'm still here," he told her.

"Come on, Rachel's in the dining trailer," Peggy said. "You interrupted dinner, you know."

* * *

Marvin plopped down on the steps outside his trailer and held his head in his hands. He hadn't been able to bring himself to go inside yet; he wasn't ready to see all of the things Kate had left behind. There hadn't been time to process anything that had happened, and he still had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact she was dead. Really, truly _gone_ in every sense of the word. If Carmen's claims were true and everybody turned regardless of how they died, that was scary - and the fact that he couldn't think of any other explanation was even scarier. Marvin lifted his head as a gust of wind swept through camp. Leaves swirled through the air and settled throughout the clearing. Though he felt like his day had just started, the sky was already tinted orange with the beginnings of sunset. His heart steadily hammered faster as he thought about Ben and Jerome being stuck in the city after dark, and how in any case, he would have to tell his son the worst news of his life when he returned to camp.

"Hey, um…" Brandon's hesitant voice snapped Marvin out of his musing. He wrung his hands together and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about Kate and coming back to camp like this," he said, motioning to the now dried blood splattered up and down his torso. "I just didn't know what else to do. She was going to tear Dean apart."

Until that very moment, it hadn't occurred to Marvin that the muck covering Brandon came from Kate. His eyes scanned Brandon from head to toe, taking in the red splashes and dubious chunks. He clamped his mouth shut and slowly shook his head, the sensation that his stomach was doing flip-flops only growing stronger. He placed his hands back over his face and murmured, "Just make sure you're wearing something else by the time Ben gets back."

"No problem," Brandon said, holding his hands up in surrender. As he backed away, Marvin's gaze landed on something else. Clarence, Jake, and Lauren were across camp, huddled together by the bumper of the bus. They talked so quietly that Marvin would've never known they were speaking at all if not for their mouths moving. Every time Lauren said something, she glanced over towards Marvin. Marvin narrowed his eyes, and after a few more minutes, the three of them headed his way.

Clarence stopped a few feet from Marvin and shoved his hands in the pockets of his olive green cargo pants. "How're you holding up?" he asked.

Marvin scoffed. "Just great."

"Well...forgive me for being bold here," Lauren began, pausing to bite her lip. "But are you absolutely _sure_ that walker didn't get Kate?"

"It never touched her. She was not bit or scratched. Period." Marvin wasn't sure how much he trusted Carmen's word. The logical conclusion was the walker got ahold of Kate, but he knew without a doubt that hadn't happened. She was never out of his or Ben's sight after the incident at the scrapyard. There was no blood or fever, nothing to suggest she'd been bitten. It didn't add up with what he'd experienced before, but it was a fact.

Clarence shared an exasperated look with Lauren. "Marvin, you'll understand if we don't believe you, right? You and Ben both have been pretty dishonest in the past few days."

"Dishonest?" Marvin questioned. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. In that moment, his worry and grief fell away only for rage to fill its place. Heat rushed up his neck, pounding away at the cold. "How _dare_ you," he snarled, firmly a statement rather than a question. "I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to explain all of this to my son, when or _if_ he gets back tonight, and you're gonna call me a liar?"

"Listen, man, you do not get to be the pissed off one here," Jake said. "Your story doesn't hold up. The way I see it, you were harboring a ticking time bomb in your trailer."

"Kiss my ass, kid." Marvin sniggered and stood up. He'd just got his hand on the doorknob when someone touched his arm. He yanked his elbow out of their grip, almost stumbling off the steps. He snapped his head around to see Clarence retreating, hands raised in surrender.

"Guys, come on!" Lauren said, her gaze bouncing frantically from Jake to Marvin. "If you really want to settle this we can go look her over."

"Look her over?" Marvin repeated incredulously. "That's my daughter in law laying out there!"

An indignant, mirthless smirk spread across Clarence's face. His fists clenched, and when he realized his, he stuffed them in his pockets. "I'm tryin' to be nice here given what you've gone through today, but clearly that's not gonna work." Jake muttered something into his ear, and whatever he said, Clarence seemed to ignore. "None of this would have happened in the first place if you and Ben hadn't been keeping secrets," he said. "Your say in what goes on around here is done when it concerns my family, and this concerns every last one of us."

"Then what?" He demanded. "What exactly are you gonna get from poking at her corpse like she's some specimen in a laboratory?"

"Peace of mind, Marvin," Lauren said. Her brows knitted together sympathetically, and when she spoke again, her tone was much softer. "If what you say is true, you can't just pretend there's not something weird going on. Kate was my friend, I think we owe it to her to figure out how she really died."

"Haven't you ever heard of letting the dead rest in peace?" Marvin questioned, though much of the venom had left his voice. He hadn't considered what Lauren said before. Maybe he did owe it to Kate - and Ben - to learn the real story. His grip on the doorknob was so tight he was surprised it hadn't fallen off in his hand yet. More than anything, he wanted to turn back time and do the day over again. As he realized Clarence, Lauren, and Jake had all fallen silent and were staring at him as though waiting for an answer, his shoulders slumped. They were going to do what they wanted, and he had no way to stop them. The best he could do was give in and avoid any more turmoil. "Fine," he finally conceded. "Go ahead."

* * *

"Home sweet home," Jerome said with a smile as he drove into camp. He pulled the truck up next to the bus and Ben hopped out before he'd even shut the engine off.

For a moment, his heart dropped - usually camp was busiest at this time of day, with people finishing up anything that might need to be done before dark and getting dinner served. But now, camp was empty and the ATV was missing. Frowning, Ben noticed that nobody was even keeping guard atop the Peterson's trailer; Samantha's chair was vacant and her rifle was abandoned on the seat. Before Ben could fret too much, Emma came hurtling from the dining trailer, Rachel on her heels.

Emma's smile stretched from ear to ear. "Papa!" She leapt into his arms as soon as she was close enough. Jerome staggered under her weight but nevertheless, he laughed and whirled her around in a big circle before returning her to the ground. Rachel stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, waiting until Emma had stepped back to envelope her husband in a stiff hug. Her eyes were puffy and red, and for a minute this further fueled Ben's worries, but then he shrugged it off. She must've still been bothered by her and Jerome's spat that morning.

Marvin emerged from his trailer, hands in his pockets. "Glad to see you boys made it back okay."

Ben grinned. He scanned the camp once more, making sure they really were the only ones, then pulled the prescription from his pocket. "Guess what I found? It's not much, but it should last her until we figure out a long term solution," he said.

Marvin exhaled like all the breath had been knocked out of him at once. His face crumpled, and he whipped off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Oh God," he croaked.

In an instant, Ben's heart was about to pound out of his chest. He couldn't tear his eyes away from his father, no matter how much he wanted to. He could count on one hand how many times he'd seen Marvin cry, ever, and that alone told him whatever had happened while he was gone was _bad_. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice taut and higher than usual.

"Kate's gone," Marvin said. His breath hitched. He clamped a hand over his mouth and kept his gaze pinned to the ground.

Ben blinked rapidly. He knew by his father's reaction 'gone' had to mean something much worse than just wandering out of camp, but what else could it be? Camp was safe. Nothing could've happened to her. She must have left when nobody was looking, and now they assumed the worst. "She's missing," Ben said, nodding slowly, clinging to the last few moments he could believe that. "She's okay. We need to go look for her."

"No." Marvin solemnly shook his head. "No, son. She's _gone_."

Ben wobbled backwards and put a hand against the bus for support. He trembled all over and his vision seemed to be getting black around the edges. "I don't - I don't understand," he said, his voice sounding far away and unfamiliar to his own ears. He couldn't form any thoughts coherent enough to ask why or how. Nothing made sense, and he realized a small part of him didn't _want_ to understand. He just wanted to stand there forever, staring off at nothing. If time stood still, then nothing could change.

"It's my fault!" Rachel blurted out. She pulled away from Jerome and started backing away from them all, hands covering her face. Around hiccuping sobs, she clarified, "I was the one th-that was supposed to be keeping an eye on her, and - and…"

"That's enough," Marvin growled. As Rachel's grief took over her ability to speak, she returned to her husband's arms and pressed her face against his chest. Marvin turned his attention back to Ben and hesitated, running a hand through his gray, thinning hair. "I don't know how else to tell you this, it's like kicking a man when he's down," he said. "But you need to know she didn't just...she's not just gone, she turned too. Long story short, Lauren and Brandon checked and she wasn't even bit." A strange pallor had come over Marvin's face, and he suddenly looked like he might be ill. "I just...don't know what happened."

Ben walked straight to his trailer and as soon as the door shut behind him, he didn't take another step. He just stood there listening to the quiet that was too hollow, like the trailer itself knew Kate wasn't coming back. None of her soft snoring, no soft swoosh as she played cards, no hum of the shower. Signs of her littered every inch of the trailer. Some of her dirty clothes piled up at the far end, the teddy bear from her childhood on the kitchen counter, her faded deck of cards on the table. His knees buckled and he smacked onto the floor but made no move to get up. Instead, he laid there like roadkill as the rest of the world fell away and he plummeted into the darkness of his new reality. "She's dead...oh my God, she's gone…" he mumbled incoherently and curled his fingers into the carpet as his words faded to deep wailing. Tears flooded down his face and pooled in a cold puddle beneath his cheek.

* * *

While most of the camp had gone to bed long ago, the Peterson family was restless inside of their trailer. Courtney sat at the dinette booth, the pale light from Dean's lantern glimmering against the hollowness in her hazel eyes. Peggy was back in the sleeping quarters, sitting on her bed with her legs crossed and hands clasped in her lap. Most of the time, she kept her gaze directed towards the window, but every now and again she'd glance towards the rest of the trailer. If her and Dean's gazes met, she'd look away and pretend to be preoccupied with something else. They'd been married too long for Dean to buy it. She hadn't had two words to say to him all afternoon, and the only time Peggy was speechless was when she was feeling something she couldn't mask with anger. Hands in his pockets, Dean walked over to the window beside the door and peered outside. Ben still sat at the campfire, his unblinking stare fixed on the low, flickering flames.

One by one, everyone else had left, wholly unaffected by the day's events. At worst, they'd lost a friend. At best, someone they hardly knew had died. For the most unfortunate, they'd been marred with a death sentence. Dean shrugged off his jacket and peeled back the thick bandaging Rachel had fixed to his arm. He grit his teeth with the effort of not hollering or cursing and soon wished he hadn't looked at all. The bite had stopped bleeding, but loose bits of flesh still dangled from his shredded bicep. Perhaps worse than the pain itself, he'd never get used to the wound. It was ugly and unnatural, the kind of thing he never expected to see on his own body. Then again, he wouldn't have to get used to it, would he? Thanks to the nifty painkillers Ben and Jerome brought back, he could coast for the next day or so without being in agony, and that was all he needed. Hell, that was probably all he had.

Dean slowly moved over to the table and lowered into the booth across from Courtney. "I think it's time we talk."

Courtney shook her head. Strands of hair from her ponytail stuck to the wetness on her face. "Maybe Grandma was right all along, maybe there's something we can do."

"We're not doing ourselves any favors playing wishing games," he replied. "Now, we know what this means and I don't know how much longer I'll feel like talking, so I want you to listen." Dean paused for a moment, trying to think of the appropriate way to get his point across. Courtney wasn't a little girl anymore, and sometimes he had trouble knowing what to do with that. "Remember that time you were at our house, and your baby doll disappeared? I accidentally ran it over with the lawn mower and didn't have the heart to tell you. I made your Grandma distract you while I crawled around on my hands and knees picking up all the little pieces of Baby Josephine."

Courtney giggled, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Me, Grandma, your mom and dad - we've always tried to shelter you a little bit. Maybe we shouldn't have, but the world could be a nasty place. Bad luck and bad things happen with no rhyme or reason, and we always wanted to save you from as much heartache was we could. But times like that are gone. The world's not just a nasty place anymore, it's downright survival of the fittest. The times where I could pick up the pieces and tell you comforting lies are over."

Courtney buried her face in her hands and began to weep. Silent as a mouse, the only give away was the hitching of her shoulders.

"I'm going to be dead within the next day or two. It's just going to be you and Grandma, and...well, rely on yourself above all else. You keep a knife or a gun with you at all times, even if Clarence or Ben tell you not to. Do whatever you have to, because this isn't the end. This world, this mess we're in...I thought there was nothing left, but here I am wishing I would get to see what comes next. Something does comes next, and I want you to be around for it, Courtney. Every tragedy in history came to an end eventually. This is what they're going to write in history books, and you're gonna get to tell this story to your grandkids."

"This is too hard," Courtney faced her grandfather, anger shining underneath the tears in her eyes. "Everyone's gone but Grandma, what's the point?"

"Don't talk like that. Be grateful for every day you have because you don't know when it'll come to an end. And when it does you'll wish to God you had longer. Trust me."

At first Courtney didn't respond, then she nodded slowly. "Alright."

"Try to relax, okay? I'm gonna go talk to Grandma." Dean stood from the booth and had to clutch the table to keep from falling over. He walked into the sleeping quarters and slid the door shut.

"Do you think that was a good idea, telling her to go against Ben and Clarence?" Peggy asked.

Dean huffed. He wasn't necessarily surprised that was what she had decided to focus on, but for whatever reason, he'd expected more. "Look what happens when people wander around without anything to protect themselves." Dean motioned to his wound and pursed his lips.

"Fine. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Dean lowered himself on the opposite bed and crossed his arms. "I need you to face the music. Bites are a death sentence. Courtney needs you to accept that."

Peggy finally turned away from the window. Her expression gave nothing away, but her eyes flicked critically from his wound to his face. "Give it time," she said with a shrug.

"Look at me," Dean snapped. "I mean really look. I haven't stopped sweating for three hours. I've never been this pale in my life, and I stayed back to puke when everyone was fixing up the shooting range earlier." He threw his good arm up in exasperation. "I think if I can accept this then you can."

"No," Peggy barked, throwing herself into a sitting position so quickly the bed shook. "We didn't wait with Melissa, we are this time. If there's any chance at all that you can recover - "

"There isn't," Dean said, crisply enunciating each syllable.

"You don't know that."

Dean groaned. Peggy's stubbornness was more painful than his wound at this point. Then, something that made all of the puzzle pieces fall into place struck him at once. "Nobody is this stubborn, not even you," he said, shaking a knowing finger at her. "I know what the real problem is here. If you accept everybody turns, you also have to accept you spent the past two months - MY last two months - hating me for no reason."

Peggy gave him a long, blank look. Then she rose to her feet, stormed through the trailer, and went out the door.

* * *

Ben didn't go inside until the campfire had burned down to nothing more than glowing embers, but he didn't sleep. He wasn't sure he ever would again. He and Kate hadn't slept separated by anything more than a nightstand since the outbreak started. Before that, they shared a bed for almost two decades. Sleeping alone wasn't something he was prepared to face, so instead of heading into the sleeping quarters, Ben dropped down to the floor at the front of the trailer. He sat cross-legged, nestled amongst the boxes he and Kate had evacuated with. They had seemed so important at the time, but they'd never gotten around to unpacking everything and now Ben couldn't even remember what was in them. Their marriage certificate was in one, he thought.

Kate's wedding band was clenched tightly in his fist. Marvin said he'd found it on the counter, just laying there. She'd obviously wanted to leave it behind. Every so often, Ben would uncurl his stiff fingers and thumb over the inscription that read forever and always. His nails were still caked with blood and he hadn't changed out of the filthy clothes he'd worn into the city, hadn't even taken off his coat. Marvin laid motionless under a heap of blankets on the kitchenette floor, his usual sleeping spot. Ben had worried from the start what sleeping on the floor was doing to a sixty-something-year-old's back, but now he was just glad his father hadn't taken Kate's bed already. He briefly wondered whether Marvin was actually asleep or faking it, but in any case, Ben was glad to be by himself.

By morning, his legs were completely numb He'd only fallen asleep long enough from the sky to go from indigo to orange, but he still wasn't tired. Marvin's sleeping pallet was now vacant, and Ben knew he was off helping put together the funeral. There would be no coffin or even a headstone. No, Kate was going to be buried out in the woods, surrounded by people who hardly knew her in a place she never liked to begin with. The thought of his wife being buried in such a cruel manner, tossed in a hole like an animal, made the acid in Ben's empty stomach froth. As terrible as it was, that was still better than his mother had gotten. They both deserved whole mausoleums to themselves, or at the very least something honorable. More than anything else, Kate and Marcia Wallace deserved to be alive. Saliva flooded Ben's mouth and for a fleeting moment he was sure he was going to vomit, but the feeling faded fast.

There had been a lot of back and forth about who to blame for Kate's death. Marvin made it clear he thought Rachel was at fault, and from what he'd heard, Clarence thought the blame lay with all three of them. Ben had tried to get angry, he really had. Having someone else to point the finger at might have actually made things a tiny bit easier, but he just couldn't. Kate wasn't Marvin's responsibility or Rachel's responsibility, and given her mental state, she wasn't responsible for herself either. Ben was the one who'd vowed to take care of her and he'd forgotten all about her schizophrenia. Ben was the one who'd promised her he'd protect her on the night they decided to leave home. Ben was the one who left knowing she wasn't doing well, which in hindsight was the biggest mistake he'd ever made. In the end, everything came back to him. He might as well have held the knife to her wrist himself for all the ways he had condemned her.

The front door squeaked open and sent a strip of honey colored sunlight through the gloom of the trailer. Dust swirled through the beam as Marvin stepped inside. He stood a little straighter at the sight of Ben. "Oh, you're up," he said. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"No." Ben picked at a loose thread on his shirt, not looking up. He knew without seeing himself that his eyes were bloodshot. They stung with every blink and ached as the cold air fell over him.

"Keisha fried up some Spam if you - "

"I'm not hungry, dad."

Marvin snapped his mouth shut and exhaled through his nose. "Well...we're ready when you are. Take as long as you need."

"Where'd you put her?" He hoped someone had been sensitive enough not to bury her in the scrapyard. Beggars couldn't be choosers, but there had to be some level of decorum. He didn't have any ideas of his own where to start a cemetery, but when did anyone ever get buried in the same place they died except in warzones?

"The shooting range," Marvin answered. Whether it was from grief or exhaustion, his voice was void of any inflection as he spoke. "We fixed it up real nice. I made sure everything was handled as, uh...good as possible." 

Ben nodded. He gave the ring within his fist one last squeeze, then slipped it into his pocket. "Okay. Let's go." He climbed to his feet and braced a hand against the wall to keep from toppling over as the sensation of pins and needles surged up and down his legs.

"Now?" Marvin's eyebrows inched upwards. "Are you sure?"

"Is there something I'm supposed to wait for?"

"Uh...of course not." Marvin swallowed thickly and pushed his glasses back up his nose with one finger. He opened the door and allowed Ben to exit first.

They walked side-by-side out of the bright, vacant camp and along the crystal blue creek. Ben kept his eyes straight ahead, but he could still see his father taking nervous glances at him every few seconds. The earthy scent of freshly upturned dirt filled the air as they neared the shooting range. Ben pressed onward through the thicket of bushes, holding the branches aside for Marvin to follow.

All of the practice targets had been moved to a heap on the side. Peggy, Lauren, Carmen, and Jake stood near them, chatting quietly amongst themselves. Dean leaned up against a tree a few feet behind them, looking as though he couldn't stand upright otherwise. Up until that point, Ben had completely forgotten they had a dead man walking among them. The sweat on his pallid face glittered in the sunlight. Dark circles carved out half-moon shapes in his eye sockets. He stiffened at the sight of Ben and flapped his hand in greeting. The others gave him half-hearted, pitying glances, then continued their conversation.

Ben's focus turned to the patch of disturbed dirt to his left. A two-foot by six-foot plot had been dug and the dirt that hadn't been packed down blew gently on the breeze. At the head of the plot sat a large rock. Somewhere underneath all that lay Kate. This realization, though he'd known it all along, sent a coldness through Ben as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice on him. Knowing he would never touch her or be close to her again made his heart race and his head pound. Before he could fall apart again, Jerome came to his side. Emma continued past them and placed a bundle of brightly colored weeds at the base of the headstone.

Jerome gave his shoulder a squeeze and yawned. "I don't know what to say," he confessed. "I'm sorry for your loss...it doesn't feel big enough."

"You know I'm not much for words anyway. What good do they do?" When Ben finally mustered the will to drag his eyes away from the grave, he noticed Jerome looked almost as bad off as Dean. His eyes had a glassiness about them, like two brown marbles. Ben guessed he wasn't the only one who didn't get much sleep.

Keisha, Clarence and Aaliyah walked over and stood on his other side. "I'm so sorry," Keisha said.

"Take as much time as you need to rest and grieve," Clarence added. "Don't worry about a thing."

Ben nodded, finding he had less and less to say. As the others moved closer and huddled around the grave, Marvin cleared his throat. "Should we all say a few words about Kate?"

Keisha's hand shot into the air. She stepped forward and said, "I didn't know Kate very well or for very long, but she was one of the first people I met after everything started. She welcomed my family with open arms at the end of the world, and as I've come to find out not many people are that selfless." Her voice gradually became more strained, and she paused before continuing. "She was one of a kind." A single tear rolled down her cheek and dripped off her jaw. Clarence wrapped an arm around her shoulders as she moved back towards him.

Rachel appeared next to Jerome, causing Ben to flinch. He must've walked right past her. She never lifted her gaze from the ground as she spoke. "Kate was unapologetically Kate. She was fire and ice with the cleverness of a fox...kind of fitting, I guess." She gave a short chuckle and motioned at their surroundings - Red Fox Creek.

"There's not enough time in the day to properly honor her," Marvin said softly. "I've known her for so long, she's like my own daughter. There's this poem that keeps popping into my head that I think really fits here. Even after everything that's happened, no matter the way she left us...I know she wouldn't want us to stand around and wither away in her absence." His mouth turned downwards as he took a trembling breath and said, "Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die."

A silence fell over them after that. It seemed nobody else had anything to add. Ben sighed, knowing his time had come. "They say speak your heart...well, my heart's gone. She took it with her." With that said, he turned and walked away.


	7. Seven: Nowhere to Run

**TWENTY FIVE DAYS LATER, SOMEWHERE IN FAIRBANKS...**

"Damn thing," Jake muttered. He squinted to see through the frost-covered windshield of the Peterson's truck, arms braced against the steering wheel. No matter how many times he flipped the switch, the windshield refused to move. Snowflakes fluttered sparsely from the overcast sky and piled against the glass. "Piece of shit," he said, grumbling a few more curses to himself. "If this snow gets any heavier, we're gonna have to leave early."

They had no way of knowing that the first snowfall of the year would occur on the third day of their scavenging excursion, and although she'd never say so out loud, Samantha thought they couldn't leave soon enough. To her right, Carmen pressed herself against the door as closely as possible. Every time Samantha looked at her, she would roll her eyes and return to staring out the window. Jake sat to her left, their elbows almost touching. Between Jake and Carmen, literally, Samantha was constantly on guard. The comment Jake had made weeks before about her 'not pulling her weight' had stuck with her ever since and she jumped at the chance to tag along. She'd fudged the truth about her capabilities, assuring Clarence she'd been in Fairbanks plenty before joining the group just so he'd let her go. Samantha suspected both Jake and Carmen were privy to the tale she'd spun, but in any case they had far more experience and confidence dealing with walkers.

Steam billowed from Carmen's mouth in a little cloud as she sighed. Her silky raven hair fell in tangles around her shoulders; grooming was the last thing on anyone's mind but Samantha didn't think she'd ever seen the woman run a rush through her hair. Carmen side-eyed Jake and demanded, "Do you even know where we are?"

"Yes, Carmen." Jake pulled the keys from the ignition and dropped them into the pocket of his coat. He turned in his seat to face Samantha. "There are a lot of places for something to sneak up on you around here, alleys and whatnot," he said, holding her gaze firmly. "Keep your eyes peeled, alright?"

Samantha nodded fervently. "Of course."

"Let's get this over with," Carmen grunted. The rickety truck creaked when she slung the door open and hopped out onto the cement sidewalk they were parked beside. She stretched her arms high above her head and yawned obnoxiously. Samantha scooted across the seat and stepped out of the truck, then eased the door shut and winced at the long, whining squeak.

A string of old, gold rush era attached buildings stood on either side of the street. Samantha eyed the alley that separated them here and there and gulped, pulling the gun from her waist. She passed the weapon through her hands and could feel the cold of the plastic even through her knit gloves. Most of her limited firearms experience was focused on rifles, but Jake said they were too bulky to carry in Fairbanks. According to Clarence she had a Glock 45, but all she knew was it made her palms hurt if she fired more than three times in a row...and with her aim, she always had to.

The goal was to find enough food and warm clothing to get the group ready for winter. Those who didn't have boots, heavy coats, hats and gloves were beginning to feel the arctic weather that had settled in a week before and refused to leave. Those things were much harder to come by than Samantha had expected. Most of the stores they checked were stocked only with summer clothes and anywhere with food had been thoroughly picked over. At Carmen's insistence, they had resorted to breaking into houses and apartments where they found winter clothes deep within abandoned closets. The bed of the truck was accumulating a small heap of clothes and boxes of food, protected from the elements by a tattered blue tarp.

Jake beckoned for Samantha and Carmen to follow him with a flip of his hand. He lead the way to the first building on their right. An ornate sign hung out from the bricks that read _Giancarlo's Italian Restaurant & Pizzeria. _"Windows are intact," said Jake, tapping his knuckles against the glass. "That's a good sign." No sooner than the words were out of his mouth, two walkers shambled around the corner. They started sluggishly towards the living, dragging their feet even slower than usual. If there were any perks of Alaska's crippling climate, this was it. Lauren had announced after the last run that walkers were slowing down. Peggy was the one who suggested it was because of the cold, citing how stiff the weather made her joints, and if what Samantha had seen was any indication, she had the right idea.

Jake pulled a knife from his belt and waited until one of the walkers was within reaching distance to charge. He took it by the shoulder and pushed it up against the building's brick exterior. The walker hardly had time to react before he'd jammed the knife through a matted mane of blonde hair and twisted. Carmen took care of the other one, opting to swipe the legs out from under it and slam the claw of her hammer into its forehead. She jumped back right before blood spurted out towards her face. Jake stepped over his kill and cupped his hands to the large window on Giancarlo's. "There's only one inside," he said, stepping back to extend his knife to Samantha. "You handle that one."

Samantha searched his face for any sign he was kidding and was dismayed to find nothing but sincerity. She pushed down the urge to say _hell no_ and took the knife before her hesitation became suspicious, tucking the pistol back at her hip. Dealing with walkers in such close range made her heart thump ever harder against her ribs but she couldn't take Jake and Carmen thinking she was any more useless than they already did. Carmen looked to Jake and huffed, shaking her head. Samantha anxiously ran her tongue along her chapped lips and gripped the door handle. She took a deep breath and whipped it open. From the doorway she could just barely make out the shadowy form of her target at the very back of the restaurant. An older female walker alerted at the sight of her and moved slightly faster than the previous two. Hoop earrings swung from its ears in tandem with its jilted steps. Low groans escalated to raspy noises of desperation as the walker maneuvered around the various chairs laying throughout the room and neared Samantha. Samantha gripped the knife tight, sure her knuckles were white and on the verge of snapping in half inside her gloves.

"Go on," Jake ordered impatiently.

Three sets of eyes watched her every move. Two sets waited with bated breath for the moment she faltered, and the third set was zeroed in on her, hoping she could be its next meal. Samantha's window to strike ebbed with every second she allowed the walker to wobble closer. Ignoring the voice in her head screaming at her to run, she took four large steps forward. Just as she swiped the knife at her the walker's blank face, it surged towards her with snapping jaws and missed by forearm by no more than an inch. Samantha shrieked and stumbled backwards only a couple steps before she found herself backed against the staircase railing. The walker followed her every move. With nowhere to go but forward, Samantha fought against the bony hands reaching for her face. Her momentary courage lapsed into terrified panic as the walker closed in, gnashing teeth not even a foot from her face. Rancid breath puffed out with every excited growl.

"Push her off and finish her," Jake called.

She caught the walker by the chest and shoved, sending it spiraling backwards into the circular dining tables. The undead woman slid overtop a checkered tablecloth and thumped to the floor before clambering right back to her feet. Samantha's chest heaved as high-pitched, breathy wheezes slipped from her mouth. Done risking her life to impress her companions, she slammed the knife down and pulled the Glock from her hip.

"Don't you dare - " Carmen's snarled sentence was interrupted by an ear-pounding BOOM as Samantha pulled the trigger. She grazed the walker near the ear, but must have nicked the brain because it finally dropped to the ground once and for all, dark brown muck leaking from its skull.

"How many times have I told you not to use your gun?" Jake demanded, his voice thunderous. "You don't shoot unless it's an emergency!"

Carmen held up her hands and shushed Samantha before she'd even thought of a response. Getting the feeling that she was supposed to be listening for something, Samantha craned her head in the direction Carmen was staring - towards a set of double doors beyond the seating area. She strained to hear over the soft ringing in her ears. What started as a faint rustling grew into the all too familiar sound of walkers moaning as half a dozen of them pushed the doors open. They grew rabid at the sight of the living, nearly frothing at the mouth in glee and stumbling around each other. More walkers sluggishly pounded against the windows at the front and side of the restaurant.

Samantha's bottom lip trembled. She backed towards the stairs and darted up them, reaching the seventh step before she realized no one was following her.

Jake waited a moment too long before he rushed _towards_ the approaching herd. He just barely escaped one walker's grabbing hands, then skirted around another, before finally reaching the table where Samantha left his knife. Carmen yelled something inaudible to him and took out two of the closest walkers with well-aimed headshots. Jake snatched up his knife and lunged backwards - only he should've looked where he was going. One of the many overturned chairs sent him to the floor. No matter how quickly Carmen fired, for every walker she killed, two more appeared from the swinging double doors that led to the kitchen. They were quickly surrounding Jake, who was stunned for a moment too long after he fell. He clawed frantically at the nearest table and pulled himself to his feet. The knife had been knocked out of his hand when he fell and now he was in hand-to-hand combat with a male walker nearly twice his size. Every vein in Jake's neck bulged with the effort of fending the walker off. His hands were wrapped so tightly around his attacker's forearms that some of its skin had begun to slough off. As the two of them grappled with one another, fighting dearly for what they wanted, another walker circled the table and grabbed Jake's arm.

Samantha screamed, "Jake!" But her voice was small compared to Carmen's gunfire and the continuous, collective moaning of the walkers. Samantha raised her gun and tried to get a clean aim at one of them, any of them, but the vicious trembling of her hands wouldn't allow it. In the blink of an eye, the walker sunk its teeth into the crook of Jake's neck. His face went slack with shock for only a split second before contorting in agony. Blood spurted from the wound as the walker reared its head back and ripped out a large chunk of flesh. Jake screamed a deep and horribly guttural scream and that was the last thing he ever did before the walkers swarmed on him. One went for his arm, another latched onto his neck, and a third attacked his face. His screams gradually quieted until the only sound was the wet smacking of lips and grunting as the walkers devoured him.

Samantha was left staring in horror, unable to wrap her mind around what had just happened. Her mouth hung ajar and she slowly lowered her arm. Jake couldn't be dead, not like that, not when he had been standing there perfectly fine five minutes before. She was jarred out of her shocked stupor when Carmen shoved past her, running upstairs. "You better move," she said. Three walkers came around the railing and started up the staircase. Samantha raised her gun and fired twice, missing both times. There was no point in fighting; her instinct was always to run anyway. She hurried up the rest of the steps and joined Carmen at the top. They were in another small seating area, though this one was free of walkers. Carmen went over to a nearby table and started dragging it towards the stairs. Samantha got the idea and jogged over to help. Together, they moved the solid wood table over to the stairs and shoved it down, sending their three assailants flying back to the bottom. "That's not going to hold them for long and we're gonna run out of tables." Carmen rested with her hands on her knees, panting. "How much ammo you got left?"

Samantha stared blankly at the gun in her hand, trying to recall how many shots she'd fired. "Three or four, I guess," she answered meekly.

Carmen popped the clip from her gun, counted the rounds, and pushed it back in. "Same here," she said. The table below creaked against the straining railing and wall as the walkers rose to their feet again. Carmen grit her teeth, an uncharacteristic look of uncertainty on her face. "Go upstairs, see if there's a way out."

Samantha did as she was told and trotted up the next flight of stairs. Rather than another seating area, she appeared to be on one of the apartment floors Jake had mentioned. The hallway was short and windowless, with two doors on the left and three to the right. She was just about to turn back and tell Carmen the bad news when she noticed the closest door was different. While the rest were wooden and had doorknobs, this one was obviously metal and had a push bar. Stepping closer, she squinted in the dimness and saw a sign on it that read '_FIRE EXIT_'. She slowly pushed it open, just far enough to see out. A metal flight of stairs lead downward. In the alley below, a few walkers wandered about, oblivious to her presence. A chain link gate with barbed wire on top kept another half dozen walkers at bay and separated the alley from a parking lot. They were going to be fighting for their lives either way, but going outside seemed like their only chance.

Samantha hurried back to the middle floor just as Carmen shoved another table downstairs. It thumped noisily all the way down and collided with the other table already at the bottom, further wedging it against the wall. The walkers relentlessly tried to bypass the blockage and Samantha had no doubt they'd manage to do so. "There's a fire exit up here," Samantha told Carmen, pointing towards the ceiling. Carmen didn't even spare a look in her direction as she barreled past her and started up the stairs. She either didn't hear or chose to ignore Samantha when she added, "We'll have to get past more walkers, I'm not sure how many there are." She followed Carmen and stood aside as the other women thrust the fire exit door open.

The door squealed a long, ugly sound that garnered the attention of the walkers below. Three flights down, they started up the steps, shambling around one another as they funneled into the narrow staircase. At the end of the alley, more walkers pushed and pulled at the parking lot gate. Their bony fingers clung to the chain link and a few of them pressed their decaying faces against it. Carmen stepped out onto the fire escape while Samantha hung back in the doorway. Carmen's shoes tapped nervously against the metal as she shifted anxiously from foot to foot. "Alright. Shit," she breathed, giving a growl of frustration. "We're gonna jump." She turned to Samantha with a look of determination in her dark, almond shaped eyes, then nodded across the alley.

Following her gaze, Samantha realized Carmen meant they were going to jump from one fire escape to the other. Twenty feet away and three storeys up, across an alley filled with walkers. An icy cloud of dread bloomed through Samantha. She shook her head, eyes round with terror. "I-I can't," she stammered, voice small and hoarse.

"Okay." Carmen glanced over her shoulder to scrutinizingly look Samantha up and down, as though she was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "Suit yourself," she added with a shrug, tucking her gun away. She strode up the railing that stood thigh-high and climbed up, one foot at a time. Samantha's breath caught in her throat as she faltered forward before bracing both of her hands against the railing, on either side of her feet. She took a deep breath, then sprang off. Her arms and legs flailed wildly as she sailed through the air. She slammed into the fire escape railing of the other building and pulled herself all the way over. Once her feet were firmly planted on the landing, she squinted across the alley and gave Samantha a thumbs up. "Piece of cake," she said lightly. Something thumped against the window behind her, causing her to jump. She whirled around and scoffed. A walker was pounding against the glass, poking its face through the sheers and staring at Carmen hungrily. In the alley below, the walkers had become focused on Carmen and started towards her fire escape. "If you're coming, you better do it," she said, raising her eyebrows pointedly.

Samantha gripped the cold railing and forced a few shuddering breaths from her tightening chest. What choice did she have? There were already a couple walkers ascending the final stretch of stairs towards her, and there would be twice as many if she went back inside. She took a nervous glance down and immediately turned her eyes towards the sky. She'd never realized just how high thirty feet was. Falling would be certain death, whether it was the fall that killed her or the walkers. Taking another steadying breath, Samantha climbed onto the railing and didn't allow herself to hesitate before launching off. She came about six inches short of the mark and slammed into the railing chest-first. She wrapped her arms around the bars and managed to keep herself from plummeting down. "Help me, Carmen!" she pleaded. She swung her legs and tried to find purchase on the landing but her boots slipped against the slick, frosty metal. Carmen grabbed her by the back of the coat and gave her a good yank, allowing her to get her footing and step over the railing.

"The truck keys are still on Jake," Samantha groaned as her gaze landed on the Peterson's truck, still parked beside the curb and now surrounded by walkers. "What are we gonna do?" she questioned, a sickening feeling of hopelessness making her near-empty stomach churn.

"Don't worry about it," Carmen said, waving her hand dismissively. They both flinched when the window beside them began to crack.

The walkers below had reached the set of stairs just below the level Carmen and Samantha stood on. Slowed by cold or not, they moved closer and closer with every painfully slow second. The parking lot gate was beginning to fold under the weight of another half-dozen walkers, and even more ambled around in the alley, just looking for a way to reach them. "Fuck it," Carmen said. She cocked her gun and turned towards the window, then fired her last three shots in quick succession. Samantha scrambled backwards and almost toppled over the railing. She pinned herself in the corner, as far away as she could get. Glass sprayed outward and fell at their feet. The walker inside dropped only to be replaced by another, which pressed through the remaining glass and attempted to step onto the fire escape. Carmen shoved it back inside by the head, then picked up the largest shard of glass. When the walker inevitably reappeared, Carmen gripped its scalp with one hand then drove the shard into its milky, soft eye. The walker slumped over, hanging half inside the apartment and half out. Carmen unclenched her hand and allowed the glass to fall away, leaving a deep, bloody gash across her palm.

She simply grimaced and pressed her hand against her coat. "Stay here," she told Samantha, using her free hand to drag the walker out of her way. "I'm gonna look inside."

"No, wait," Samantha protested, but Carmen had already stepped through the window. The leading walker below finally reached her level and stumbled around the railing, sunken eyes set firmly on Samantha. Samantha raised her gun but hesitated a moment too long before she pulled the trigger. Her bullet sliced through the walker's shoulder, doing little more than stunning it. By the time she'd recovered from the pistol's harsh recoil, the walker was overtaking her. It lunged just as she fired again and wasted her last bullet. She was still pressed into the corner where the railings met and yelped when the walker's hands narrowly missed her face. The gun slipped from Samantha's hands and clattered to the concrete alley below. Her hands met her attacker's cold, mushy forearms. For a corpse, it sure had a lot of fight left in it, and the two of them grappled with one another for what seemed like an eternity. Yellow, snapping teeth neared her face one too many times and she used the last of her strength to thrust the walker away. It toppled over the railing and landed on the concrete below with a distinctly crunchy _splat_.

There was no time for Samantha to revel in her triumph. There more walkers were mere feet away from cornering her when a hand clutched onto the side of her coat and jerked backwards. Samantha screeched and tumbled backwards through the window, smacking her face against a carpeted floor. She hurried to her feet, preparing for another fight, but her terror ebbed into surprise when she saw Carmen was the only other one in the apartment. "Oh. Thanks," she said, watching with round eyes as Carmen started pushing a wheeled television stand across the living room. Samantha darted over to the other end and helped Carmen push it in place before the window. They managed to secure the television stand just as the walkers reached the landing and bony, gray arms poked through the gaps. It wouldn't hold forever, but hopefully would give them enough time to figure out what to do next.

The apartment had an open floor plan with nothing separating the living room and kitchen. A door sat ajar at the other end of the apartment, exposing a messy bedroom. Samantha trudged into the kitchen and leaned against a granite island. Her knees were shaking so hard, she thought for sure she was going to end up back on the floor. "What now?" she asked, eyes fretfully following every move Carmen made.

Carmen walked past her to the sink and tore some paper towels off the roll. She pressed them to her sliced hand and winced. Blood blossomed into the white, oversaturating it in an instant. She was quiet for so long that Samantha was beginning to wonder if she'd heard her at all. Finally, after a few more tense moments of silence, Carmen sighed. "I've looked around and we _have_ to go back down to the street. We're gonna have to fight through that swarm unarmed and I'm gonna have to hotwire one of those vehicles." She tossed the crimson wad of paper towels aside and pressed some fresh ones against her wound. Her eyes flicked up to finally meet Samantha's gaze as she told her, "I've got to go without you."

Samantha's breath caught in her throat. "Y-you can't leave me," she croaked, slowly shaking her head.

"I'll bring someone back to get you," Carmen replied absently, as though the conversation was over.

"_No_," Samantha insisted. Tears welled in her eyes. She gripped the edge of the counter just to keep herself standing upright. The logical part of her could see Carmen had already made up her mind, but the thought of being left alone was unimaginable. It was simply too cruel, even for someone as cold as Carmen. Samantha's voice warbled as she pleaded, "Don't do this to me."

"Shut up," Carmen snapped, all traces of her previous calmness gone. Her eyes seemed to blaze with fury as she stormed forward and pressed Samantha against the island. Their faces were all of a foot apart. "Let me tell you how this is gonna go," she hissed. "I'm leaving. _Me_. And if you try to follow me, I'll kill you myself. Some useless little bitch like you is not going to be the reason I die today. You got that? Or do I need to write it down for you?" As Samantha simply stared on with her mouth hanging open, unable to move, Carmen turned away and started rifling through the kitchen drawers. "I told my brother joining this group was a goddamn mistake," she muttered. "We should've left the French one and his dumbass family in that plaza. I should've insisted we leave you in camp. But no, everyone else thinks they know better. You just wait…" the rest of her rant was inaudible, spoken under her breath. Carmen pulled the largest butcher knife from the block on the counter and headed towards the front of the apartment.

Samantha trailed after Carmen like a toddler that had been separated from its mother, weeping and pleading incoherently. "Please, please, I promise I won't get in the way, Carmen, _please_," she wailed, her voice growing more panicked and desperate with every step. She fiddled with her hands and watched with mounting anxiety as Carmen went over to the window, tore the curtains from their rod and tossed them aside. It was as though Samantha was no longer there, and she wished with all her might that she wasn't. Walkers dotted the street below. Carmen picked up a nearby lamp off a table and smashed against the window. It only took one strike for the glass to break. At the other window, more walkers had gathered and the television stand began to creak under their shoving.

"Back off," Carmen spat through grit teeth when Samantha stepped closer. She pointed the knife menacingly towards her and warned, "You better get away from me." She waited until Samantha had retreated into the kitchen area to stick one leg out and sit balancing on the window. Carmen tucked the large knife away somewhere in her coat and wiggled her way outside, gripping the sill tightly. She lowered herself down as much as she could, then let go. Samantha ran over to watch, gasping as Carmen fell twenty feet to the sidewalk and landed awkwardly on her left leg. The limb folded upon impact and she cried out in pain, riling the walkers even more if possible. She laboriously climbed to her feet and pulled the knife from her coat, half staggering and half walking as she made her way towards a dusty, drab car across the street.

"Carmen, please," Samantha moaned once more, knowing it was no use. She pounded her hands against the window sill and began to sob as Carmen made it to a car and wrenched the door open, practically falling inside. Walkers were instantly pawing at the door. By the time Carmen turned the engine over, the alley walkers had swarmed on the car, surrounding it on all sides. The four-door vehicle lurched forward, mowing down any walkers on the path, and sped up the road until it was out of sight. Samantha sank down the wall and collapsed onto the floor, both so the walkers wouldn't see her and because her knees had finally given out. Her chest heaved as quiet sobs stole all the air in her lungs.

* * *

**MEANWHILE, AT RED FOX CREEK…**

Fat snowflakes drifted lazily from gray, overcast skies, clinging to bare trees or withered foliage for only a second before disappearing. Jerome Dufour had spent most of his life working in the harsh Alaskan elements, so his tolerance for the cold seemed to be higher than many of his fellow survivors. While most of them only exited their trailers when it was absolutely necessary and refused to wear any less than three layers, Jerome carried on, content with the same old brown jacket he'd had on for a month.

He pulled the beanie atop his head over his ears and scrunched down as an icy blast of wind cut through camp. His face and hands had stung when he first stepped outside, but now that he was halfway up the creek path, most of his exposed skin was numb. The paper plates in either of his hands threatened to fold in on themselves, and Jerome was sure the food hadn't been warm since the stove shut off. Jerome longed for the days where everyone could eat their meals together, but for one reason or another, that had become a rarity. By dinnertime it was getting dark and too cold for even a campfire to warm them, the dining trailer couldn't even fit half the group, and since Kate's death, Ben rarely joined the group for anything. There were only two people he'd even answer the door for, so whenever Marvin was busy, the job of getting Ben his meals fell to Jerome. He didn't mind, he just wished there was something he could do to actually help.

Ben had hauled his trailer out of camp and settled near the scrapyard shortly after Kate died, and it'd almost been like he left the group altogether since then. He just didn't want to see or talk to anyone, and he certainly didn't want to be the boss. The longer he stayed away, the more he became the elephant in the room to the rest of the group. Marvin didn't talk about him and nobody asked, though they sure gossipped. Secrets were hard to keep with so many people in such small quarters, and Jerome had heard many things he wished he hadn't. He didn't need to hear Jake and Peggy's lack of faith in Ben any more than he needed to know Clarence and Keisha's sex life was on the fritz, but he'd heard it all and then some.

Jerome strode up to Ben's trailer and went inside without knocking, carelessly juggling one plate atop the other. Ben sat at the dinette booth with a pen in one hand and a notepad in the other. Tufts of hair stuck up all over his head. Dark circles adorned the bags under his eyes. He only looked up once Jerome set their plates on the table, scrutinizing the watery brown and white mixture with a grimace. He looked questioningly to Jerome, silently asking _what the hell is this_?

"Baked beans and cream of mushroom soup. Yummy yummy," Jerome said dryly. He walked over to the kitchenette and rummaged through the drawers until he found a spoon for both of them, then slid into the booth opposite of Ben.

Ben swirled his spoon around in the slop, shaking his head. "I'm guessing supplies are running low?"

"Yeah, so we're getting another Peggy special. Some of the others are getting beans and spinach so really, I think we're the lucky ones." Jerome poked at the watery mush, his resolve to eat it fading by the second. He and Ben took their first bites at the same time and didn't even chew before they shared a look of disgust. Both components of the 'stew' were strong enough to leave an unpleasant taste in Jerome's mouth even after he swallowed, which was a task in and of itself. He couldn't help but laugh, something else that had seemed to have become a rarity. The ever-solemn expression on Ben's face remained unchanged as he took another bite. "At least it's something in our bellies," Jerome said meekly.

Silence mounted as they ate, except for the scraping of plastic utensils against paper plates. Quiet was one thing but this was quickly becoming an uncomfortable hush and Jerome had enough after just a few minutes. "Your dad took Brandon hunting with him. He seemed eager enough to learn but I don't envy Marvin right now," he said, chewing slowly. Ben had made it clear he didn't care to hear about the happenings around camp anymore, but that didn't mean he needed to be kept completely in the dark. "Teaching anybody anything in this weather must be a drag," Jerome continued. He waited for some kind of reaction, but Ben didn't respond beyond a distracted nod. Jerome took another nibble and decided to try and engage him one more time. "Samantha and Carmen are off with Jake on a supply run," he continued. "That's an odd trio, huh?"

_That_ got his attention. Ben struggled to form a sentence, spluttering "You - I - She - " before he finally demanded, "What? _Why?_"

"Well, there was some drama over the laundry," Jerome explained, snickering. Tensions were running high due to the weather, lack of supplies, and already strained relationships, so the silliest things caused arguments. "The water's gotten too cold for Peggy's hands so Lauren stayed behind to help Rachel with the laundry. Carmen chose a supply run over chores and Samantha just wanted to go, I think."

"And Clarence let her?" Ben's mouth fell open. "Samantha has zero experience...and who's on guard duty now?"

Jerome ran a hand down his face and stopped below his nose to block the budding smile he could only fight for so long. Ben wasn't as detached from the group as he thought, and the fact the he obviously still cared showed a lot of promise. Jerome cleared his throat and forced his face to settle into a blank expression. "Most of the time we don't have anybody on guard anymore," he replied. "It's been too cold and we really doubt anyone's just going to stumble across us."

Ben stared unblinkingly at Jerome for a long moment, then he muttered something under his breath and resumed eating. Jerome figured the moment had passed so he did the same, taking tiny nibbles of the cold concoction, until Ben slammed down his spoon. "I had no idea what I was getting myself into, bringing all these people back here," he said. His voice was strangely dark, like he was confessing a ghastly secret. "I only did because Dad and Kate talked me into it."

"It's not too late to come back if you want," Jerome stated, fiddling with the edge of his plate. Ben made him nervous when he got this candid, even though that was how he always was. There was too much room for error on such a serious topic. "You've done great," he said firmly. "This is just a bump in the road." He waited, hoping Ben would respond or show some kind of reaction. When he didn't, Jerome shifted uncomfortably against the booth and pressed his lips together tightly before continuing, "Clarence is running things now and I know he means well...but he expects too much."

"How so?"

"Not only does he want to go to Juneau, he wants to head out without stockpiling anything. He said we could pick things up along the way." Jerome exhaled shakily. "Seven hundred and some miles with no preparation? We probably wouldn't even make it out of town. And he's not leaving any room for discussion. He expects us to either do what he says or buzz off."

"So let them go." Ben shrugged. "We can either make it here or go somewhere else ourselves.

In fact, that might even be for the best. Let Clarence and whoever wants to go with him go. That should cut the group back to a manageable size."

Jerome frowned and rubbed his forehead. Maybe Ben wasn't thinking as clearly as he thought. "You realize our group would be you, me, your dad, Rachel, Brandon, Carmen, and two kids? That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, Benny."

"Clarence's idea is horrible, I'll give you that," Ben said. "But I don't _want_ to come back. I've stuck my neck out for everyone and I don't even know why anymore. They were never happy with the decisions I made. Someone always had a bone to pick or a problem with me." He absently picked at a brown coated mushroom on his plate. "I used to think they were just ungrateful, but you know why they were unhappy? I'm not a leader. I never have been and I don't know how to be."

"You and this group have lasted longer than the National Guard. I'd say you did something right."

Ben lifted the notepad he'd been writing in and flipped through the pages. "As much as I don't want to, I do feel responsible for these folks. So whenever I have a clear head, I've been going over our options." His piercing gaze flicked over the notepad then gripped Jerome. "We can't make it through the winter here, you know that."

Jerome held back a sigh. He crossed his arms and sat straighter against the booth. "It's your call as far as I'm concerned, but I don't get why we can't make it here. All we need to do is find a couple more trailers, stockpile some food, get some warmer clothes - "

Ben scoffed and added, "Find the meaning of life, cure cancer, fly to the sun…"

"We're golden out here," Jerome insisted. "Do you think there's any other group that can go months without seeing a single biter?"

"Oh, I should've known," Ben grumbled, throwing his hands up. "You want the group to freeze and starve just so you don't have to deal with walkers."

"Put yourself in my place, would you want your kid to see the kind of shit we have?" Heat flushed Jerome's cheeks. He half expected to see steam puffing out his ears. Why did Ben have to act like wanting to avoid walkers was a bad thing? Wasn't preserving their walker-free sanctuary worth a few cold, difficult months? Red Fox Creek was safe and not having to worry about biters was priceless. Jerome hadn't believed it himself when he first arrived in camp, but now he understood what Keisha had been talking about.

"It's part of life now, she might as well learn," Ben said.

Jerome took a deep breath. He supposed he couldn't be but so irritated with Ben. He couldn't understand where Jerome was coming from because he wasn't a father. Besides, he didn't seem nearly as bothered by walkers as Jerome was. He couldn't expect everyone to feel the same way he did and just bash skulls like it was nothing. But if that's the way he felt, there was nowhere left for the conversation to go. Jerome had only managed to eat half his plate yet his appetite had vanished. He stood up and slid the remainder of his lunch towards Ben. "You can have my slop if you want it," he said. "I'm gonna head back to camp."


	8. Eight: Radio Silence

Rachel attached a piece of rope to the trunk of a thick spruce near the edge of camp, then tied the other end to the corner of Lauren's trailer. She couldn't wash the laundry or tie knots with gloves on so her fingers had gone from beet red to turnip purple in the span of half an hour. Wisps of brunette hair had fallen from her loose bun and occasionally stuck to the snot that ran from her nose no matter how much she wiped her face.

Lauren dragged two plastic tubs of sopping wet clothes across camp, then went back for the third one that contained underwear and socks. She kicked it towards Rachel then collapsed against her trailer, chest heaving. "Holy _crap_. I can't wait to get this done so I can crawl into a pile of blankets and never come out," she said. None of the trailers were large enough to hang the laundry inside, so they had to wait for windy days to dry the clothes. And now that it was winter, the wind was _nasty_. The type of howling, whistling wind that would take your breath and leave you wheezing if you faced it too long.

"Don't forget, we still have to get water for Peggy to use," Rachel reminded her with a shaky sigh. Lauren groaned and hung her head. They got started with the third tub first, pinning up the socks and undergarments like they were going for a speed record. Rachel's fingers were starting to become uncooperative, refusing to bend all the way. The stinging ache had become a hot throbbing, and Rachel decided she needed something, _anything_, to distract her. She asked, "How did you get so good at this stuff, Lauren?"

"What, laundry?" Lauren moved to the second tub, squinting curiously at Rachel. She held two clothespins between her teeth and pulled out a couple shirts, flapping them to remove anything that might've stuck from being washed with creek water.

"I mean survival," Rachel said. "Usually you'd be on a scavenging run right now. I've never seen you shoot but Clarence speaks pretty highly of you." She grabbed a pair of damp, faded jeans and paused as she raised them towards the rope. They belonged to Marvin, and any sign of him had become a reminder that he still blamed her for Kate's death and hadn't had two words to say to her for a month. Rachel realized she hadn't taken a breath or said anything for a full thirty seconds, and caught Lauren looking at her knowingly out the corner of her eye. She cleared her throat and continued, "You're awfully young to have such a level head...that's all."

"Twenty-three isn't that young is it?" Lauren blew her wild, brunette bangs from her eyes and pinned up the last two pairs of pants. Then, she shrugged. "I guess I just knew early on that I couldn't act like a scared college kid or I'd be treated like one."

"College," Rachel sighed wistfully. "I remember those days."

Lauren asked, "You were a nurse, right?" Rachel nodded. She flipped the empty tubs over and allowed the water to drain out, then moved onto the final heap of laundry. "Marketing major," Lauren said sourly, motioning towards herself flippantly. "Boring as all hell. My folks said they'd only pay my tuition if I picked from their choices, and it was either marketing, mechanical engineering, or biology." Her mouth quirked to the side and for a moment she seemed to be lost in thought as she methodically snatched up long sleeved shirts and pinned them in the remaining gaps on the rope. "I was just about to finish up my second year when everything went to shit...but enough about me, nursing sounds _way_ more exciting," she said, intrigue flashing across her face.

"It certainly had its moment."

"Did you nurses and doctors realize something was up before everyone else?" Lauren made a swishing motion with her hand. "You know, with the walkers?"

"Not really," Rachel said, scrunching her nose. "I worked in an emergency room and we definitely had a few bite victims. I mean, I know that's what they are now but none of us really did at the time. But to tell you the truth, I bailed as soon as I realized how bad things were going to get." She fiddled with the threadbare hem of a shirt for a few seconds before she dared to glance at Lauren and gauge her reaction. She was well aware the story didn't paint her as a saint, but to her relief, Lauren was nodding sympathetically.

"Hey, you did what you had to do," she said, a small smile on her lips. "You had a family to think about."

"Thanks." Rachel smiled gratefully. Once they had pinned up the last of the laundry, she took a few steps back to survey their work, hands planted on her hips. The rope sagged dangerously low under the weight of all the clothes, but as long as the knots held, it was good enough for Rachel. Doing the laundry had become such an ordeal that she was starting to believe just wearing dirty clothes wouldn't be so bad. Sighing, she turned to Lauren and reluctantly asked, "You ready to go fill the buckets?"

Lauren nodded glumly. "Let's get it over with."

"I'll go get the gear." Rachel set off towards the dining trailer and stopped short as soon as she opened the door. Adrian and Emma sat at the table, a pack of crayons in the middle as they colored on loose sheets of paper. Peggy sat a few feet away, flipping through a magazine. Rachel inhaled deeply through her nose, hoping it would smother the fire growing in her chest. What was supposed to be her and Jerome's trailer still doubled as the camp's kitchen, dining room, storage unit, and apparently, daycare. Every time the door swung open with someone coming in to cook or eat or grab something, Rachel got that much closer to speaking her mind. Why couldn't they switch trailers with Peggy since she was the cook, always running in and out? That was really Jerome's trailer she stayed in anyway. Rachel shook her head, forcing her pessimism out, and walked over to the table.

"Look what I drew!" Adrian happily held up his half-finished drawing of a green dog wearing a top hat.

Rachel chuckled and said, "That's very good, Adrian." She pressed herself against the wall and squeezed past the chairs, reaching the heap of supplies in the back corner. She grabbed two pairs of rubber boots. As she started back past the table, her eyes passed over Emma's drawing - then she did a double take. Emma had drawn over a dozen stick-figures. Six of them had yellow halos over their heads and big white wings sprouting from their backs. Rachel's gut sank like she'd swallowed a rock. Although she was afraid she already knew the answer, she asked, "What did you draw, Emma?"

"People," she replied. Emma pointed at her figures as she named them off. "This is the group over here. Then that's Dean, that's Kate, that's Auntie Natalie and Uncle Dan, and these two are Lucy and Billy. Remember them, from Fort McAdams?"

Hearing her sister and brother-in-law's names spoken out loud after so long made Rachel stiffen. They had practically become myths in her mind, something she was too afraid to speak of in case it reminded God of their existence and he made them disappear. She wasn't dumb enough to believe Emma was oblivious to those they had lost, but she had no idea they had been on her mind enough for her to fill a page. "We don't know that Auntie Natalie and Uncle Dan are in heaven," Rachel said, smiling gently.

Peggy's gut jiggled with suppressed laughter. She pointed downwards and said, "You think they might be somewhere else, Rachel?"

Rachel sent a withering glare her way. Joking about her family like what wasn't appropriate, especially when she didn't even know if they were alive or not. She turned her attention back to Emma and watched with mounting worry. Emma exchanged her black crayon for a brown one and started scribbling hair onto two large stick-figures and one small one near the edge of the paper. "This is us," she said, and once she finally glanced up, her face lit up hopefully. "Oh, are you going to the creek now?" she asked, eyes flicking to the rubber boots. "Can I come? Please, Mom? I've been stuck inside all day."

Before she had even thought about it, Rachel found herself agreeing. "Yeah," she said, nodding. All she wanted was to get Emma away from that dreadful drawing and whatever headspace she'd been in to create it. "Bundle up, it's really cold," Rachel added. The children had been the top priority when Jake and Lauren had started scavenging for winter apparel weeks before. Fortunately, Emma hadn't grown much since Rachel had last went shopping for her and still fit the same sizes. Her jeans were tucked into brown, lace-up boots that went halfway up her calf. She pulled on her black puffer jacket, then hopped over to the door and hurried outside. Rachel stared after her, shocked by how quickly her demeanor had flipped. She kicked off her shoes and shoved her feet into the rubber boots, which were far too big for her, then followed after Emma with the other pair in hand.

Lauren sat atop the picnic table. Three empty five gallon buckets were at her feet. She lifted a stack of lids from her lap and extended them towards Emma. "Here, kiddo. Carry these for us."

Rachel grabbed two of the buckets and waited while Lauren changed into her rubber boots, then the three of them headed off towards the creek. Emma skipped alongside her mother, the lids hugged to her chest. She hummed to herself quietly and seemed to be off in her own little world, watching the snowflakes and blowing leaves with a twinkle in her eye. She had stayed true to her word since the gun incident and spent her days playing with the other kids and occasionally helping out around camp, but Rachel had always known there was something just under the surface that she couldn't put her finger on. And now she had a good idea what it was - everything Emma felt was just under the surface and she never let on about any of it. Rachel didn't have a ton of experience with other kids, but she didn't recall being so solitary at Emma's age. She went to her parents to talk about what was bothering her all the time, they never had to drag it out.

The plastic buckets on Rachel's arm banged together with every step. As they reached the creek, she said, "Stay on the bank, Emma. I don't want you getting wet." Her oversized rubber boots slid across the slick, jagged rocks that lined the water, making Rachel's heart lurch into her throat. One wrong move and she could either crack her head on a rock or take a plunge into arctic water. She gingerly stepped into the creek and gasped. Cold shot up her legs like icy lightning bolts. Rubber boots may have kept her dry but did nothing for warmth, and much to Rachel's displeasure, being dry was more important.

Lauren stepped up beside her and lowered her bucket into the lazily rushing water. She glanced over her shoulder and said, "Gimme a lid, Emma." The ten-year-old dutifully tossed the lid to her like a frisbee. Lauren secured it onto her bucket, then set it on the bank. "So," she began as she turned back towards Rachel, a curious lilt to her voice. "This is going to sound really random, but how did you and Jerome meet?"

"Well, before he got into the gold mining scene, Jerome was a construction worker in Anchorage." Rachel bit back a wince as she dipped her own bucket into the creek and the water lapped at her chapped hands. "Guess who came in all banged up my third week working the emergency room?"

"Aw," Lauren crooned, grinning. "Love at first sight?"

"Kind of." Rachel giggled. Emma threw her a lid after her bucket was full, and she snapped it in place. "He fell off some platform at work and came in with a concussion and a really nasty laceration on his arm. As soon as I walked in the room and went over to take his vitals, he puked on my feet."

Emma made an exaggerated gagging sound, earning a laugh from her mother and Lauren. "That's disgusting!"

"He could charm the skin off a snake and that's what he did to me," Rachel said, smiling fondly at the memory. "Puke and all, that accent and big brown eyes had me smitten from the start."

"I have to admit, that's not what I was expecting," Lauren said. She filled the last bucket then joined Rachel on the bank. "I know this is stupid, but um...I've only ever had one boyfriend and it was in like, tenth grade. I've just been thinking about all the things I never experienced and probably never will at this point." She pinched her lips together and a new rosy patch blossomed across her cheeks. "All my friends in college met their boyfriends at school but frat boys and hookups are just _not_ my thing." She smiled sheepishly and grunted as she lifted one of the buckets onto each arm.

"It's not stupid," Rachel said. "Wanting companionship is perfectly normal, especially in a time like this."

"Speak of the devil…" Lauren looked somewhere past, brows raised. Jerome meandered slowly towards them, walking close to the creek. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket and his eyes didn't lift from the ground until Lauren called, "Hey, Old Man Winter!"

Jerome frowned but a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. "Old man? Really? He questioned, voice warbling with laughter.

"I do think there's some more gray in that beard than I remember," Rachel said, poking at the thickening stubble along as jaw once he was near enough.

He playfully smacked her hand away, but the amusement had already faded from his eyes. "You girls need a hand?" he asked, nodding to the remaining bucket.

"Not right now, Papa. _I'm_ helping." Emma wrapped her hands around the handle and pulled upwards. Her face reddened three shades before she'd managed to lift the bucket an inch off the ground. She dropped it back down and exhaled heavily. Her bottom lip jutted out. "Maybe not," she said.

Jerome chuckled. He plucked the beanie off his own head and forced it onto Emma, ignoring her protests that she wasn't even cold. "Shush," he chided. "Your ears are as red as tomatoes." The two of them started play boxing, hopping around in the dirt and dodging each other's soft punches.

Rachel rolled her eyes. As Lauren turned away to start back to camp, she said, "Will you take Emma back with you? I want to talk to Jerome for a minute."

"Sure. Come on, Emma. I think I've got a book in my trailer you'd really like," Lauren said. Emma took one final swipe at her father then scampered alongside Lauren.

Jerome tipped his head questioningly, but Rachel waited until her daughter was out of sight to speak. "How's Ben?" she asked softly. Although he claimed he didn't blame Rachel for what happened with Kate, Ben certainly hadn't been any friendlier to her than his father in the past month. He hadn't graced the main camp with his presence since towing his trailer out and Rachel couldn't help but wonder how much that had to do with her.

"A little higher spirits today, I guess." He shook his head and gave a small, solemn sigh. Then, as though he could read her mind, he added, "It has nothing to do with you, Rachel. It never did." He cast a hesitant glance towards the camp path and lowered his voice. "In fact, his problem is with basically everyone _but_ us. And he's talking about going to Anchorage."

"Oh." Rachel stood a little straighter at that. Her eyes widened as the stick figures of her sister and brother-in-law Emma had drawn flashed in her head. She tentatively asked, "What do you think about that?" She knew Jerome felt strongly about not leaving the creek, but she hoped Ben might've been able to change his mind.

"I don't like it," he answered, pursing his lips.

Rachel sighed. Everyone thought Ben and Clarence were stubborn, but Jerome could match them when he had his mind set on something. Some nearby bushes rustled as a pair of wrens flew out. Jerome whirled around and went rigid, rooted firmly where he stood. He stared at the bushes, and _kept_ staring for far longer than Rachel understood. She observed him in silence, the hollow look in his eyes that she couldn't quite place making her concern balloon until she couldn't take it anymore. "Honey," she began softly, as if she was talking to a wild animal. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah." His head whipped towards her but the warmth still hadn't returned to his eyes. "Anchorage is just, um...I don't see the point. We've got it good here."

Rachel blinked slowly, completely taken aback by the one-eighty in his demeanor. There seemed to be something else he wasn't saying, but privacy was too hard to come by for her to pass up an opportunity to discuss the future. Any concern that remained was burned away by the heat rising up her neck. How exactly did they have it _good_ at Red Fox? The weather had begun to make every day miserable, they didn't even have a trailer of their own, they had the threat of being snowed in constantly looming over them...the list went on and on. She scoffed and said, "We need to start making a plan B. The clock is really ticking, you of all people know how screwed we're gonna be if we get snowed in. Why are you so against checking out Anchorage? If it turns out they're just as bad off there, there's wilderness down there too."

Jerome exhaled heavily and rubbed the back of his neck. "I just went through this with Ben…"

"Now you're gonna go through it with me," Rachel replied. "For months I've kept my family in the back of my mind because I just couldn't bear to think about what they were doing or whether they're even alive. _You_ made the decision for us to come here." Pent up emotions came rushing over her. She clamped her mouth shut as she composed herself and sniffled. "Anchorage has so much potential. I could find my sister, there could be more resources or maybe even another refugee center there. It's worth a shot," she insisted, practically begging.

"I suppose I can think about it." He shrugged and slowly moved to pick up the remaining bucket of water.

Rachel's heart sank. That was as much of a response she was going to get from him and it certainly was helpful. All she could do was hope he came around before the others moved on without them. She nodded slowly and moved to pick up the remaining bucket of water. "Okay," she said, her voice breathy with the sigh it rode on. "There's something else I've been meaning to talk to you about. I think we should let Clarence give Emma shooting lessons."

Jerome paused, half bent down towards the bucket. "You can't be serious," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "She's only ten years old."

"Do you really think that matters anymore?" Rachel smiled gently. "What can it hurt? She's kept her word not to play with guns, now I think it's time for her to learn they're a tool. If there's ever an emergency, I want her to know what to do."

"I hate this," Jerome murmurmured. "I'd give anything for her to have a normal life."

"It's only as big of a deal as we make it," Rachel said, leading the way towards camp. She patted her husband on the back as he came to walk alongside her. "Courtney must've been younger than Emma when she started going hunting with Dean and that was long before the world ended."

Jerome had just begun to say something when a shrill scream sounded from somewhere down the creek. They both froze and shared a wide-eyed look.

"That sounded like one of the kids," Rachel croaked, her throat frustratingly dry. No sooner than the words were out of her mouth, Jerome turned and took off towards the noise, dropping the bucket and leaving it to roll back down the slope.

* * *

Courtney walked into the shooting range turned cemetery, grateful for the shelter provided by the dense, leafless trees. She paused and eyed the two graves, a solemn sigh on her lips. The dirt had settled and succumbed to the weather over the past month. By now, she could hardly tell there had ever been a holes dug at all. The only giveaway that there were bodies resting just below the surface were the headstones, two sizable rocks with the names of the respective deceased carved messily onto them: Kate Wallace and Dean Peterson. Courtney couldn't remember who'd done Kate's headstone, but she was the one who made one for her grandfather. Who else cared enough to do right by him? Jerome and Clarence may have dug the grave, but that was only to be nice. They didn't know him and they didn't really care. Nobody _really_ cared about her grandfather but her. The woman who was supposed to be his wife, who had apparently forgotten the whole ''til death do us part' thing, had been distant right up until he was in the ground.

At the end, he sacrificed himself for her sake. The more Courtney thought about it the more she realized that was the final time he would sacrifice himself, but not the first. When it was her mother's time to go, Dean took care of her himself. Put down his own daughter to protect her, while Peggy buried herself in denial so deep Courtney didn't think she was ever going to snap out of it. Yet when Dean's time came, he had to 'take care' of himself. He had to die alone. Peggy pretended like nothing was happening the whole time, and Courtney didn't have it in her to go with him or do it herself - not that he would've let her anyway. He lasted a whole day after he got bit, until he was so sick and weak he could hardly walk, then he asked Clarence to drive him out somewhere far from camp. And that was that. Courtney wasn't sure how exactly her grandfather had died, she just knew her whole world fell apart in a matter of days. Her family had been picked off one by one, be it by distance or walkers, and now there were two. Courtney was past feeling guilty when she wished it had been her grandmother that Kate got, not Dean.

She stopped next to his grave and kneeled down, pressing her denim-covered knee against the cold dirt. "Things are only getting worse," Courtney revealed quietly. No one was listening out here and she could say whatever she wanted. Even in death, Grandpa was there for her. She pulled a withered weed from beside the headstone and twisted it between her fingers. "I think the group's falling apart. Ben moved his trailer out of camp and Clarence has taken over. Everybody's arguing. We have to warm up water on the stove to wash with now." She took a deep breath and directed her sad eyes towards the sky, where a pair of doves flew over. "I haven't gone hunting since you...left. It just isn't right without you there."

Some of the thicker bushes at the edge of the clearing began to rattle furiously. Courtney rose to her full heat and slid a hand inside her coat to retrieve the revolver nestled in the waist of her jeans. Her hands trembled as she aimed towards the bushes and squinted through the sights, expecting a walker to burst out at any moment. Instead, a small voice gasped, "You have a gun!" and Aaliyah stepped through the bushes, face alight with awe.

Courtney's arms sank as soon as the little girl came into view. A deep feeling of guilt settled into her gut. She had been a split second away from pulling the trigger. The words Dean told her every time they went hunting rang in her head. _Always have a clear view of your target. Don't put your finger on the trigger until you know you're ready to fire. _She hid the gun away within her coat and huffed. "What are you doing out here?" she demanded.

"I followed you," Aaliyah replied simply. Her wiry hair was pulled into tight, low buns on either side of her head. She was one of the few unlucky people who still hadn't gotten winter apparel in their size, so her dark purple coat hung almost to her knees and the sleeves went well past her hands when not rolled up. She sniffed and nodded towards Dean's grave. "Why are you talking to a grave?"

Courtney sucked in a deep, calming breath. Next time, she was going to lock the kid in a trailer before she left. She pondered for a moment whether she should tell the truth and explain that venting to her grandfather made her feel better, even if he was dead, then she decided against it. Aaliyah was eight years old, she wouldn't understand. "None of your business," Courtney said, smiling contemptuously.

Aaliyah's mouth fell open. "You don't have to be _rude_," she exclaimed, planting her hands on her hips.

"And _you_ don't have to be so nosy." Courtney grabbed Aaliyah by the oversized sleeve and started out of the cemetery, not bothering to slow down when the younger girl dragged her feet. "We're going back right now. Your Mom is probably worried sick, you're gonna have the whole group looking for you."

Aaliyah scoffed and said, "I bet my mom hasn't even noticed I'm gone."

"I'll tell her if she hasn't. Do you know how stupid it is to sneak around like this?"

"Well you're doing it," Aaliyah retorted, her voice nearing a whine. She tore her arm out of Courtney's grip and stared at her for a moment, then a devilish smile spread across her face. "I won't tell your secret if you don't tell mine."

Courtney's heart thumped nervously as she realized there was a good chance she'd be in hot water when she got back to camp herself. Per Clarence's rules, nobody was supposed to leave camp without letting him know, and only he and Lauren were supposed to carry guns while the others were off in Fairbanks. Courtney knew Aaliyah well enough to know she was going to snitch on her about the gun to the first adult she saw. She said a silent apology to her grandfather, who must have been looking down from heaven at her in shame. From the way she and Peggy had been arguing to pointing a gun at a little kid, Dean was probably rolling in his grave. "If you tell anybody about me then you'll be tattling on yourself too," Courtney said tentatively, curious to see if that would be enough to buy Aaliyah's silence.

"I don't care," Aaliyah retorted. "You're breaking my daddy's rules."

"So are you!" Courtney threw her hands up in the air. "You make no sense." They walked in silence for a few more paces, following the path beside the creek, until the foliage behind them rustled. Courtney stopped in her tracks and shushed Aaliyah's demands to know what was wrong. Twigs snapped. The bushes trembled and rattled. Above the babbling of the creek, Courtney could've swore she heard breathing. She frowned and quietly asked, "Aaliyah, did one of the other kids come with you?"

Aaliyah's dark eyes were impossibly wide and round as she shook her head. Courtney regarded her with a look of disbelief. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, she simply rested her hand on her gun and waited. She heard a deep huff of breath and the scuffing of dirt. Then the crispy undergrowth trembled and out stepped a brown bear three times the size of any human, no more than thirty feet away. Aaliyah screamed so loud it echoed off the trees. She tried to run but Courtney clutched her by the neck of her coat, forcing her to stay in place. "Stop, you're making it worse," she said out the corner of her mouth. For once, Aaliyah listened. Low whimpers slipped from her trembling lips and a single tear trailed down her brown, frosty cheek.

The bear snuffed, producing a big puff of steam. Courtney's heart seemed to be in her throat now, pounding so hard and fast she couldn't even swallow. Dean had never said much to her about bears, except 'they're as afraid of us as we are of them', but as she stood there staring down this gigantic bear who seemed completely unbothered by their presence, she wasn't sure she could believe that. The bear lifted a massive paw and stepped towards them. Courtney curled her fingers around her gun, wondering if a thirty-eight caliber would even do any good against a bear. "Uh...go away," she said, clapping her hands together. The bear growled and rose onto its hind legs, towering over the two girls similar to the trees.

Aaliyah gave another shriek and pulled desperately on Courtney's arm. "Do something, he's gonna eat us!" she wailed.

The painful, terrifying truth was that Courtney didn't know _what_ to do. This was one animal she'd never encountered in the wild before and she didn't have the slightest guess as to what action would be 'right'. Seconds ticked by, through the felt like hours, and the bear only growled. Heavy footfalls thundered up the path behind Courtney and she snapped her eyes closed, sure they were about to be eaten by this bear's mate.

Then the unmistakable, French-accented voice of Jerome exclaimed, "Oh, shit!" and the footsteps halted. Courtney slowly craned her head around to see Jerome and Rachel standing just a few feet back. To her dismay, both of them looked just as terrified and panicked as she felt. Jerome's face was slack with fear and Rachel's mouth hung open as her bulging eyes locked onto the bear. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the bear dropped back down to all fours and walked away, huge paws thumping against the dirt and rocks. It splashed into the creek and disappeared into the woods on the opposite bank.

Courtney deflated as though she was a balloon that had been popped with a pin. Her shoulders sagged and she put her hands on her head. If Jerome and Rachel hadn't run up when they did, she probably would've been the third grave in their new cemetery.

"A bear." Rachel's voice was high pitched with terror as she clasped her hands against her chest. "A fucking bear this close to camp…"

Jerome ran a hand down the dark, thickening stubble along his jaw and shared a look of worry with his wife. He turned his concerned eyes upon the girls. "Are you okay?" he asked them, eyebrows furrowed.

Aaliyah's only response was to cry harder, but Courtney nodded numbly. "We're okay," she answered.

"Good," Jerome said. He gave Aaliyah a reassuring pat on the head and chewed at his bottom lip, appearing to be deep in thought. "You oughta take the kids back to camp, Rachel." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and added, "I'm gonna warn Ben and Marvin." When Rachel's eyes bulged and she opened her mouth to protest, he held up a hand to stop her. "Honey, I have to. We can't just let them wander around out here not knowing there's a bear in the area."

"But you don't even have a gun," Rachel pointed out, shaking her head. "It's dangerous."

Courtney fought the urge to curse. That damned gun of hers was bound to cause trouble one way or another. How would she feel if she kept her mouth shut to cover her own butt and something happened to an innocent person? She petulantly rolled her eyes and pulled the gun from within her coat. "Here," she grumbled, extending her arm towards Jerome. His eyebrows hitched up his forehead in shock as he stared at the weapon, hesitating so long to take it that Courtney's arm grew tired. "That's my Grandpa's gun," she began, eager to defend herself. "He told me to always carry something with me to protect myself and I know it's against Clarence's rules, but…" she trailed off, shrugging.

"Okay, then." Jerome turned the revolver over in his hands, blinking. "Don't worry about it right now, kiddo. We've got bigger fish to fry."

* * *

Hours had passed since the dull pinks and purples of sunset faded into the black of night. With the absence of electricity, street lamps, or flashlights, the darkness inside the apartment was almost overwhelming. It was a darkness like Samantha had never known, so thick that she could hardly see her hand in front of her face. At some point she moved from her spot below the window to the bathroom, both to take refuge from the cold and to get away from the moaning. Oh, _the moaning_. There was no escaping that. The walkers on the street below wandered back and forth, their steps sluggish and jilted. Those on the fire escape had yet to forget about the fresh meat just beyond the window and pressed relentlessly against the barrier.

Samantha sat in the bathtub with her knees pulled up to her chest. She'd cried until there were no tears left. Her eyes ached For what must have been the hundredth time, she lifted the walkie talkie from her lap and pressed the talk button. Static crackled and echoed off the porcelain surrounding her. She sniffled and tried to speak, her voice hoarse and nasally. "Anybody there?" Nothing but silence returned. The snow surely accounted for the interference...unless nobody was listening anyway. What difference did it make? No one was coming for her. She swept the back of her hand across her nose, further encrusting her gloves with snot. Her shoulders hitched as she began to weep again, but her puffy, inflamed eyes produced no tears. "P-please, if anybody can hear me...you don't even have to be from my camp, I just need help," she begged. The shaking of her hand increased as the minutes dragged on and she received no response. She took in a gasping, hiccupping breath and thumped her fist against the tub. "_Please_, please, please…"

* * *

Milky white clouds, filled with the promise of more flurries, periodically drifted over the fingernail-shaped moon. This dim moonlight, along with the low fire that kept Clarence and his family from freezing to death, gave Red Fox Creek some much needed visibility. For that, Brandon had to be grateful. He liked to think of himself as an adaptable guy, but this whole 'survivalist' thing was really putting him to the test. As if the dead roaming the earth, cold, and hunger weren't bad enough, now he had to worry about bears. How none of them had ever thought of it before was beyond him, but he couldn't be mind. Hindsight is 20/20, after all. He only hoped if a bear made it to camp he'd have an advantage. From his post atop Peggy's trailer, he could see everything from the treeline perimeter of camp to part of the creek path. He subconsciously tightened his grip on the shotgun in his lap as a rabbit hopped out from underneath the short bus, scuffling in the foliage.

Brandon had to admit he was glad his main concern for the time being was something natural, something that was a normal concern when in the wilderness. Walkers were a secondary threat out here, and while it had taken him a while to get accustomed to, he could see now why certain members of the group were so hell-bent against leaving. Deep down he knew leaving was inevitable, and for him this was more like a vacation than a permanent arrangement. All good things came to an end; that wasn't something he'd ever had to learn the hard way.

At this time of year there were no crickets chirping or any of the other woodsy ambience there had been when Brandon first arrived. Except for the occasional hoot owl or chilling howl of a coyote, the silence was deafening. And then, his walkie talkie crackled to life for the first time in three days.

"...hear me...from…"

Brandon tore the radio from his belt and listened intently. The static was thick and choppy, but he caught the tearful voice of a woman. He waited for a good ten seconds to make sure whoever was on the other end had finished speaking, then pressed the talk button. "Hello? Hello, this is Brandon Woods, who is this?" He growled and shook the radio when the only sound that came through was static. "Do you copy? Hello?" He tossed the shotgun to the floor and started down the ladder two rungs at a time, fervently repeating his message into the walkie-talkie all the way to the ground and across camp. He wasn't but a few feet from Clarence's tent when the static stopped, so abrupt that its absence somehow felt wrong to his ears. Brandon blinked at the radio clenched in his white-knuckle grip. Maybe he imagined it, or maybe it was interference from a stranger...but it could've been Samantha.

He drummed his hand against the frost-covered nylon of the Evans family tent and hissed, "Clarence! Wake up!"

Ten seconds later, the tent shook viciously and the entry flap unzipped. Clarence lumbered out, wearing the same olive green parka and cargo pants he wore throughout the day. A fleece blanket was tangled around his socked feet. "What happened?" His voice was thick and groggy, but Brandon heard the underlying worry. The campfire's faint glow accentuated the deep lines across his forehead.

"I heard a voice on the radio," Brandon said, lifting the walkie as high as his arm would allow in hopes the signal would return. "It was weak but I think it could've been one of our people."

"You think?" Clarence repeated. He rolled his eyes. "Boy you 'bout gave me a stroke, waking me up in the middle of the night - "

Keisha's head popped from the tent. She softly asked, "What's going on?"

"I heard someone on the radio," Brandon said.

"Yeah?" Keisha's eyes widened hopefully. "What did they say? How'd they sound?"

"Well, uh…" Brandon took a step back and scuffed his boot in the dirt. All of a sudden it seemed silly, getting so worked up over less than a sentence. "She said 'hear me' and then there was an interruption and I heard 'from'. There was so much static that was all I got but it has to mean something, right?" Clarence crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his lips together so tightly they almost disappeared altogether under his mustache. "She sounded upset, like maybe she'd been crying," Brandon continued, a defensive edge to his words. "My guess would be Samantha, my sister doesn't get upset like that."

Clarence turned his face up towards the sky and sighed. "If she's upset and radioing in the middle of the night, what do you think that means, Brandon?"

"That at least one of 'em is still alive," he said. "I could go look for them before it's too late. We know the general area of where they went, Jake wanted to check out the business districts…"

"Out of the question," Clarence replied firmly. "No search and rescue missions. You know that and so did they when they left."

"Dude, come on." Brandon's brows furrowed together tightly. "I can take the bus and be in and out before dawn. That's my sister out there." Even though they hadn't checked in like they were supposed to, Brandon hadn't been worried about the trio - his sister least of all. But now that the possibility of them being in trouble was looking him in the face, he wanted nothing more than to go to their rescue.

Keisa turned her sympathetic face up towards Brandon and smiled gently. "From one parent to another, I'd be extra careful as long as Carmen's gone. If you go out there and something happens to you, where will that leave Adrian?"

"Besides, you can't just leave us high and dry," Clarence said, his round eyes narrowing indignantly at the thought. "The bus is the only vehicle we've got left, if you leave with it then we're trapped here."

No matter how valid their arguments may have been, it only left Brandon frustrated. He was starting to think Carmen was right - things were better when he didn't have to check with anyone besides himself before making a decision. And when did his bus become the camp vehicle, anyway? He took a deep breath and clipped his walkie-talkie back to his belt, knowing the conversation was over. There was no arguing, not with Clarence. "Alright," he said, forcing himself to nod in agreement. "You're right. I just wasn't thinking clearly," he added, taking a step backwards to illustrate his surrender.

"Don't lose hope yet," Keisha said. "It's only been two days since they last checked in."

"Three days and nights in Fairbanks." Clarence chuckled. "A few months ago that was a sweepstakes prize. Now…" He trailed off, then cleared his throat. "Well, I'm going back to bed before I freeze right to the ground. Stay warm, Brandon."

"Yeah." Brandon gave a lazy flap of his hand as Clarence and Keisha returned to their tent and zipped themselves in. He turned and started back towards the Peterson trailer, but stopped short at the sight of Peggy. She leaned against the door with one arm resting on the other, cigarette held between her fingers. Brandon had never heard her come outside, and with her face as blank and untelling as always, he had no idea how long she'd been standing there. "What are you doing up?" he asked.

"A Filipino boy was stomping around on top of my trailer." A lopsided grin spread across her face. The end of her cigarette glowed red in the dark as she took a long drag. Smoke floated from her mouth and nose as she snickered and asked, "Clarence got your balls in his pocket too?"

Brandon shrugged, pursing his lips. "He's not wrong. I can't leave without potentially screwing you all over."

Peggy didn't say anything for a few long moments, then motioned upwards with her free hand. "Let's have a seat, huh? I've been wanting to talk to you."

Oh, great. Brandon had hardly talked to Peggy in the month since he'd joined the Red Fox Creek camp, and never about anything besides food. He couldn't imagine what was on her mind that she wanted to talk about in the middle of the night, but his gut feeling was that it couldn't be anything good. He followed her up the ladder plopped down cross-legged on the roof, leaving the chair for Peggy. She scoffed, probably a little offended, and stood by the edge instead. The paper-thin blanket of snow nipped at Brandon's legs for only a moment. He lifted the shotgun back into his lap and watched Peggy with a reluctant curiosity. She was unlike any other old lady he'd ever met, that was for sure.

"How long did you and your sister survive by yourselves before you came here?" Peggy asked.

"A couple months. We were with a little group of people for a few days before we left Palmer, but after that we kept to ourselves," Brandon explained. "Carmen thinks it's easier that way, but I think it's better for Adrian to be in a group."

Peggy's eyebrows hitched up at that, as though she'd forgotten about his son. "Where is he anyway?" she asked, glancing around camp until her gaze fell on the short bus Brandon and his family had been staying in.

"In the dining trailer with Jerome and Rachel," Brandon answered, subconsciously glancing over his shoulder at the trailer that lodged is five-year-old son. "I didn't want him on the bus alone," he said. Brandon was grateful the Dufour family seemingly hadn't had any problem when he asked them to let Adrian sleep with them for the night. The only other parents in camp were Clarence and Keisha, and their tent was crowded enough as it was.

"I can tell you're strong," Peggy said. "The bar around here is pretty low as it is, but it couldn't have been easy to survive with just Carmen and your son for so long. And if that's not a testament to how well you can take care of yourself, that whole ordeal with Kate…" she paused for a long moment, staring off into the faint stars. "I don't think anyone else could have handled it," she finally ground out, too quiet and too harsh all at once.

Memories of that terrible day came flooding back, flashing through Brandon's mind like a clip show. The blood. How Kate's head sounded when he dropped an engine block on it. The wild yet dead look in her eyes. "Do you have a point to all of this?" he questioned, a little annoyed at Peggy for mentioning the incident so casually.

Peggy walked over to the canvas chair and plopped down with an obnoxious sigh. "I'm old," she began bluntly. "I had ninety-nine problems before the dead started walking and I've got a hundred more now. I can't say with any certainty that I'm gonna make it through the winter." She took one last drag from her cigarette and flicked it into the campfire below. "So...if anything happens to me, I want you to keep an eye on Courtney."

"Huh?" Brandon's dark eyes widened. He sputtered and struggled to articulate his thoughts. "I'm - she's - what do I know about raising a teenage girl?"

"At this point she'll raise herself." Peggy shrugged. "If my math is right, we're in November now so she turns sixteen this month. She thinks she's grown anyway and damn close to it." For however momentary, Peggy's crass attitude had fallen away, and for the first time Brandon saw cracks in the mask. She wrung her hands together slowly, and quietly added, "I just want to know she won't be all alone. Our family has lost so much already."

"Don't worry about it," Brandon said, surprising himself with how readily he'd agreed. Peggy was stronger than she gave herself credit for and he felt like he was mostly just reassuring her, but more or less becoming a Godfather wasn't something he planned to take lightly.

Peggy spat into her palm and extended her hand. "Shake on it?"

Brandon's mouth fell open as he eyed the glistening slobber in disgust. She was a really interesting grandma. "Uh...take my word for it?"

"Haha!" She guffawed heartily, loud enough that it echoed off the treeline. Brandon raked a hand down his reddening face, waiting for the group to come out from the trailers demanding to know what all the noise was about. But, if Peggy's crassness had woke them, no one cared enough to brave the cold and see what was going on. "Okay, I'll take your word," she said. "Well, now that that's off my chest, I think I'm gonna go to bed."

"Wait," Brandon said. Just as she'd stood from her chair, he realized there was something that had been on his mind too. "After the whole thing with Kate and Dean...I never apologized to you. I mean, I said 'sorry for your loss' at the funeral same as everyone else. But you don't know how many nights I've spent wondering what would've happened had I paid better attention or moved a little faster."

Peggy's jolly demeanor slipped away at once. The blank, stony look returned to her face. "Nobody blames you," she said firmly. "There are a lot of things that could have been done differently, and you have nothing to do with any of 'em. So don't worry your pretty little head about it anymore, okay?"

"Okay," Brandon agreed, nodding slowly. He sensed there was something she wasn't saying - and if Peggy of all people was holding something back, he didn't want to know what it was.


	9. Nine: Lost and Found

Samantha eventually fell into fitful dozing, waking up so frequently she couldn't tell if she'd slept for five minutes or five hours. She laid curled up on the cold floor of the porcelain bathtub, head lolling as her dark dreams came in short flashes. Memories of her life before the outbreak blurred together with the things she'd witnessed since then. Birthdays and Christmases, blood, death, and despair, all on an endless loop.

After she dozed off six or seven more times, Samantha awoke enough to see sunlight peeking under the door. By that time, in between her restless bouts of sleep, she decided she was not going to die in that bathtub. Maybe on the street, yes, but _not_ in that bathtub. Nobody was coming to help her and she didn't want to die. That left only one option, one she had never entertained in any of her twenty-five years...she was gonna have to fend for herself. Wisdom from her mother played over and over again in her head. "Rome wasn't built in a day," she always said, during the many times Samantha felt overwhelmed. "Take it one step at a time and you can do anything."

So, what would step one be? _Find something to defend yourself with._ Samantha ran her finger along the spaces on the tile wall, deep in thought. Her gun was laying out in the alley and there were no more bullets. Unless she was fortunate enough to find a firearm in the apartment, she would be left with no choice but to defend herself against the walkers up close and personal.

Then what? _Find a way down to the street._ That should be simple enough - if there were any walkers in the hallway outside the apartment, they would've been at the door already with the ruckus she and Carmen had made. The ones on the fire escape hadn't made themselves known for a while, and Samantha clung to the hope they had forgotten about her and drifted away in search of living flesh that was easier to reach.

After that? _Survival is all that matters._

Three steps. Find a weapon, get out of the building, and survive. She could do that..or at least the first two.

Samantha stood up and stepped over the side of the tub. She found the door in the dim light and slowly pushed it open, half expecting to see the barrier knocked over and the apartment full of walkers. Instead she could see clear through the TV stand and to the brick exterior of the other building across the alley. She gave a quick sigh of relief as she realized her second step was already going well.

Early morning light, sickly bright and contrasting against the past few days of gray skies, filtered through the broken window Carmen had escaped through. Samantha walked into the kitchen and pulled the drawers open one by one until she found a screwdriver, the closest thing to a weapon she was gonna get. It wasn't ideal, but if a piece of glass worked for Carmen, she supposed she could manage. She tucked the tool away in her pocket and tip-toed across the carpet, crouching down once she reached the television stand. The fire escape was clear, at least from what she could see through the gaps in the shelves of dusty electronics and movies. The alley, however, looked worse than the day before. For whatever reason, many of the walkers that had followed Carmen returned to the alley. Some stood around idly while others paced back and forth. The Peterson's truck was no longer surrounded but still as good as gone as long as the keys were still on Jake. Samantha's shoulders dropped at the thought of him. He had surely turned by now, sentenced to a permanent purgatory between life and death, with no purpose other than feasting upon the living . Equally disheartening was the fact she had overlooked an integral part of her third step - she had to get a vehicle. She couldn't hotwire cars like Carmen, so she had no choice but to find another way.

But first, she had to find something to eat. Her stomach was liable to catch the walker's attention with the way it was rumbling. Samantha quietly returned to the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets, taking her pick of canned ravioli. After she'd pried the top off with a can opener, she sat upon the counter and debated her options as she ate, spearing cold ravioli one by one. Samantha's gaze lingered gloomily on a scenic calendar hung beside the refrigerator, flipped to July. In a way, the world had just stopped. Things like time and television and everything not integral for surviving were things of the past. She couldn't be sure how much time had actually passed, but she figured they had to be in the beginning of November. Over _three months_ since the outbreak and there was still no end in sight. She still wrap her mind around everything that had happened just in the past day. First Jake died, then Carmen abandoned her and left her for dead. A day that had started out fairly well given the circumstances had ended unfathomably horrible, and the pessimism that reality had left in the pit of her stomach refused to leave.

Samantha walked over to the busted window once she'd drained the can of all ravioli and sauce. She squinted against the blinding sun that was just beginning to peek over the rooftops. Six walkers shambled around on the street below. Dirty, torn shirts and sagging pants hung from their decaying bodies. They walked a little faster than they had the day before, undoubtedly warmed by the sun. Samantha drummed her fingers against the tin can still clenched in her fist. Distracting the walkers seemed to make the most sense, but she knew there would be no going back once she tried. She took a shaky breath and hurled the can out the window. It bounced off the middle of the road and clattered noisily all the way over to the sidewalk. The sound was unnatural and loud enough in the morning hush that the walkers immediately alerted. Those already on the street groaned excitedly and charged the can, while some of the walkers from the alley wandered over to investigate.

Just to keep their attention, Samantha snatched a glass dog knick-knack off a nearby shelf and tossed it out a few feet to the left of where the can had first landed. She then hurried over to the television stand and peered out past the fire escape. Only a couple walkers were left in the alley, oblivious to her presence thus far. Taking a deep breath, Samantha pulled the television stand just far enough from the window so she could slip out onto the fire escape. She found the screwdriver in her pocket and gripped the handle tightly as she stepped out onto the landing, narrowing her eyes as the bitter cold fell over her.

She hurried down the steps and cringed every time the metal staircase squeaked. When she finally reached the ground, her heart seemed to lurch into her throat as she realized not all of the walkers had gone all the way to the street. Some had stopped at the end of the alley, just far enough left that they were out of her sight from the window. Samantha stumbled to a stop and pressed a shaking hand against the bricks as several of the walkers started towards her, stumbling forward and rasping enthusiastically. _They're slower than usual, _Samantha thought, raising her screwdriver defensively. But as the walkers neared, Samantha knew she'd been kidding herself all along. She didn't have the guts let them get any closer, to practically allow them to touch her so she could stab them. Her breathing sped up until she was practically wheezing and instead of trying to kill any of them, she darted between two approaching pairs and ran out towards the street.

Desperate groans and hollow clacking of snapping teeth grew in volume at Samantha's back. The walkers who had been momentarily occupied by the tin can and dog sculpture were now much more interested in chasing her. Her feet thumped against the asphalt, growing slower as a stitch in her side cramped painfully. She didn't even want to know how close the walkers were or how many there were as she charged down the street, frantically looking for an escape. The street was still lined with vehicles, but Samantha's hope was running out. Unless they had gas in the tank and keys in the ignition, they were useless to her. She ran to the nearest vehicle, a blue two-door truck with a flat tire. She tried the door and was dismayed when it wouldn't budge. She moved on to the driver's side door of the next car in line, a green pickup, and groaned when she got the same result.

Samantha ran to a silver car on the other side of the street. She peered through the window and gasped in disbelief at the sight of keyes on the dashboard. She didn't hesitate to pull the door open and fall inside, chest heaving as she caught her breath. She seized the keys and fumbled with them for a few moments before she found the one that fit into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life after her first turn of the key.

Despite the mirror's warning that 'objects look closer than they appear', the walkers certainly appeared _close_. They were closing in around the car, some close enough to slam their hands against the hood. Samantha stomped the gas pedal and sent the car hurtling forward. She sped along faster than she ever had, leaving the walkers in the dust. There were no cops to stop her, no other drivers, and no need to obey traffic laws. She swerved around any walkers and occasionally went up on the sidewalks. A triumphant grin spread across her face, knowing she had made it. Well, she'd survived - but now where was she going to go? Even with a map, she didn't have any idea how to get back to Red Fox Creek. The smile faded from her face in a flash as reality came crashing down. She may have escaped the walkers, but her ordeal was far from over.

The car screeched to a halt as Samantha slammed on the breaks, coincidentally sliding just past a stop sign. She'd somehow ended up at an intersection, surrounded by one storey houses and small, clustered businesses. She yanked the glove box open and was disappointed to find nothing more than fast food wrappers and a pack of condoms. What on earth was she going to do without a decent weapon, food or shelter? She clutched the steering wheel and fought the rising hysteria that left her wanting to scream and cry. Getting herself out of the apartment alive after Carmen had left her was more or less a fluke. It hadn't had much, if anything, to do with her own survival skills. She couldn't see herself lasting another night.

In the crisp morning silence, a strange sound broke into Samantha's overwhelmed mind. A low rumbling came from somewhere nearby. She froze, trying to pinpoint what it was and where it was coming from. She didn't realize it was a vehicle until a tan, armored truck rolled into sight across the intersection. Samantha gasped. Walkers were bad enough, but she did not want to be caught alone by strangers who could want to rob her or worse. She tried to press herself as low as she could in her car, upper half of her body on the passenger's side floor while her legs stretched over the center console and onto the seat. She clapped both hands over her mouth, irrationally afraid her ragged, panicked breathing would give her away. The gritty rumbling grew closer and closer until Samantha was sure the truck was just across the street, then the engine shut off. sound grew closer and closer, until she was sure it was just across the street, then it stopped. Too terrified to move, Samantha squeezed her eyes shut and listened to the fast pounding of her heart.

The truck's door opened and thumped shut. Moments later, there was a tap against the driver's side window of Samantha's car and the muffled voice of a man said, "You know I can see you, right?"

Samantha's eyes flew open. She slowly turned her head and was sure she was about to have a heart attack when she saw a man looking back at her. He wore tattered fatigues and held a rifle in a relaxed manner, pointed towards the ground. Fear had clutched Samantha's voice in it's grip. All she could do was slowly raise her hands, show that she wasn't going to fight, and give up.

An amused grin spread across the man's young face. He slung the gun over his shoulder and opened the car door. "I'm Private Lancaster," he said. "What's your name?"

* * *

Three days had passed since Brandon received the mysterious, jumbled message over the walkie talkie. Most of the group was convinced the message had to be from Samantha, and their concerns only grew as time went on and the trio that should've returned long ago never even radioed in. This was day six, and Clarence Evans had his mind made up - Jake, Carmen, and Samantha weren't coming back. A three day run didn't turn into a six day run unless something had gone wrong, and the only radio check-in they'd received in five days was the supposed message from Samantha. In Clarence's opinion, the only logical explanation was that they were dead or worse. Much to his exasperation, nobody else shared his beliefs. No matter how dumb or unlikely it was, everyone including his own wife refused to stop clinging to the idea that their missing friends could show up at any time.

So, Clarence let them live their fantasy. They could pray and watch the camp road like hawks all they wanted, but to him, life went on. His plans for his family couldn't be put on hold for a day that was likely to never come. And, even if it made him seem cold or insensitive, Clarence believed it didn't have much to do with him whether Jake, Carmen, and Samantha returned or not. He didn't wish them any harm, but he wasn't going to spend his days fretting over them, either. His sights were set on Juneau and he was just barely hanging onto the hope of finding some semblance of civilization there.

Nearly two inches of snow had fallen overnight, and this time, it stuck. The world was blanketed in white as far as the eye could see, sparkling blindingly bright against the sun. Clarence knew there was a good chance this was only the beginning, and with no weather channel to turn to for a heads-up on incoming blizzards, he was itching to hit the road. But of course, there were a few loose ends he had to tie up first. He was a man of his word, and when he'd told Ben he would take care of things so he could grieve, he meant it.

With their old shooting range turned into a cemetary, Clarence had simply hung a few rusty old cans from a leafless tree at the edge of the scrapyard as targets. He eyed the swinging cans, riddled with bullet holes, and gave Lauren an approving nod. She was standing about fifty feet from her targets and had a proud smile across her pale face. "Well done," Clarence praised, and just as he was about to remind her to switch the safety on, she did so without prompting. It had done Clarence's heart good to watch the young woman hone her skills over the past few months. She held the AR-15 comfortably, pointed towards the ground. Clarence grinned and turned to face his other students.

He'd wanted to teach everyone basic gun skills since the start, but it was only within the past week that most of the group got onboard with the idea. Keisha was still firmly against Aaliyah touching a gun, but at long last, she'd agreed to let her watch. Aaliyah and Emma stood at the opposite side of the scrapyard, far from where the shooting was taking place. Their gloved hands moved fast in a quiet game of Miss Mary Mack. A few feet away, Brandon sat atop a stack of old tires with his ankles crossed. When Lauren handed in the rifle and returned to the sidelines, he gave her a high five.

Clarence walked over to the ATV parked near the gate and returned the AR-15 to its protective bag. Jerome and Rachel, who sat in the front seats and had been watching rather indifferently thus far, went rigid when Clarence pointed towards Emma and said, "You're up." A big grin spread across Emma's face and she turned away from her and Aaliyah's game without a second thought. Her boots crunched against the snow as she trotted over. She waited patiently while Clarence dug around in a ratty duffel bag and found a Glock nine millimeter, a compact pistol he thought was perfect for beginners. "Hey, Courtney," he said, catching the teenager's attention. She stood farther back than everyone else, leaning against a post in the rusty chain link fence. She raised her eyebrows questioningly at Clarence and he asked, "I know you can hunt with the best of 'em, but how much experience do you have with handguns?"

"Um…" Courtney wrung her hands together. She and Jerome shared a bug-eyed look Clarence couldn't quite identify, and he almost asked what the deal was, but quickly decided he didn't want to know. There was enough drama and questionable happenings within the group already without him uncovering more. Courtney hesitated a beat longer, then finally answered, "Not very much."

"Well, I think you're ready to learn." Clarence beckoned her over with a swipe of his hand. He waited until she'd come to stand beside Emma to begin his lesson. "I think I only need to tell one of you this, but guns aren't toys," he said, looking meaningfully to Emma. She pressed her lips together tightly and nodded. "In the world today, guns are _tools_. Knowing how to properly use one just might save your life one day." Clarence pulled a loaded magazine from his coat pocket and held up the Glock. "First things first...this particular gun has no safety switch. Once the clip is in, it's ready to fire."

"Whoa, don't you think that's a little extreme?" The ATV shook as Jerome twisted in his seat to fully face Clarence, his eyes wide. There was an appalled edge to his voice as he demanded, "Can't you start her out with something a little more _sane_?"

"Man, you're the reason instructors don't allow parents to hover in real classes," Clarence snapped. "You agreed to this, remember?" He popped the magazine into the pistol with a soft _clack_, punctuating his statement. Jerome sank back down and didn't say anything else. Clarence turned away with a huff and flicked his eyes between Emma and Courtney. "I'm starting you out with this _because_ there is no safety. I want to make sure you know to treat every gun like it's loaded," he said firmly. He kept his index finger pressed along the gun and turned his hand so the girls could see, careful to keep the barrel pointed towards the ground. "No matter what, you keep your fingers off the trigger until you're ready to shoot, and you never point a gun at anyone unless you're prepared to kill. You don't _ever_ use a gun to scare or intimidate people, understand?"

Clarence waited until both girls had nodded to relax and lower the gun. "Alright, Emma. You're going first," he said. The ten-year-old perked up at this, flashing her nervous father a smile. She adjusted her beanie so there was no danger of it falling over her eyes and followed Clarence through the scrapyard. Fifteen feet seemed like a good starting distance for a child, so Clarence pointed to a spot beside a heap of rusty scrap metal and nudged Emma into the appropriate stance. "Stand with your feet firmly planted, about as far apart as your shoulders," he directed. He transferred the Glock to her hands and carefully molded her fingers in the right places. Emma held her pointer finger as far as she could from the trigger. "Go for that can in the middle, Lauren didn't tear it up as bad," he said. "Take your time and slowly pull the trigger when you're ready. It's gonna be loud but it's nothing to be scared of, it's just noise." Clarence moved a few feet back to observe.

One corner of Emma's mouth hitched upwards as she squinted through the sights. She zeroed in on the cans dangling from the thick branch, blowing softly in the breeze. Emma stared down the target for only a moment longer before pulling the trigger. She flinched at the loud _bang_ and stumbled a couple steps backwards, her mouth hanging open. Clarence quickly came up behind her and grabbed her hands, which had been wildly swinging the gun up and down. "Whoa," she breathed, blinking at the gun in disbelief.

"Come on, you weren't this scared when you shot a hole in Lauren's roof," Clarence quipped. "Just take your time. Don't jerk the trigger, gently curl your finger around it." He figured her parents must've been close to having heart attacks by now, so Clarence took a furtive peek over his shoulder towards the front of the scrapyard. Sure enough, Jerome now stood just outside the ATV with his arms crossed over his chest. His icy gaze followed Clarence's every move. Clarence simply shook his head - it wasn't _his_ fault the kid panicked - and looked back towards the tree. None of the cans had any new holes, but the tree branch they were tied to was missing some bark. "Alright," he sighed. "Whenever you're ready."

This time, Clarence didn't move so far away. Emma raised the gun, lined up the sights, and swiftly pulled the trigger. The middle can jerked sideways and clanged into the others. Emma cheered, "Hey, I did it!" and turned towards her parents with an ear-to-ear grin. Rachel, along with some of the others, gave her a little round of applause.

"Well done," Clarence said. "Three more, then it's Courtney's turn. Make them count."

One out of three shots met their mark, but Emma was thrilled nonetheless. Clarence took the gun and began getting Courtney set up while Emma returned to the ATV, a little more bounce in her step. Whether it was her age or she just paid closer attention, Courtney required significantly less instruction. She held the gun just right, hit her target four out of five times, and kept her finger comfortably off the trigger when not firing, all on her own accord. Just as Clarence was considering giving her a chance with one of the bulkier handguns, Ben and Marvin strolled into the scrapyard.

"Hey, Ben," Rachel greeted cheerfully. "You here for shooting lessons, too?"

"Nah, just thought I'd see how everyone's doing," Ben answered with a shrug.

Those who hadn't laid eyes on Ben for almost a month seemed surprised to see him, but Clarence doubted any of them were more shocked than he was. The way Marvin talked, Ben could hardly bring himself to get out of bed most days, so Clarence couldn't help but wonder if there was an ulterior motive. He narrowed his eyes and watched warily as Ben stopped by the ATV. Rachel launched into an animated recount of her daughter's shooting lesson, laughing and motioning with her hands. At the end, she added, "We thought of inviting you guys along, but I wasn't sure if we should disturb you or not." She focused solely on Ben as she spoke, not sparing Marvin a glance even though he stood a foot away.

"Well, it's kind of hard to miss unless you're deaf." There was no edge to Ben's tone, but when he smiled, it didn't reach his eyes. His wrinkled clothes looked like they'd been slept in more than one night and his hair, which was now grown past his ear lobes, definitely hadn't been more than finger-combed for a while. Clarence fought down the creeping burn of irritation. He knew he should've been understanding. The man had lost his wife, afterall, and Clarence knew he'd be just as bad off or not worse if it was Keisha. But this wasn't like before, where someone could get time off work to grieve. 'Checking out' of survival wasn't an option, yet Ben had. If he thought he could just waltz back in and pick up where he left off as 'the boss' he had another thing coming.

"Hey, Lauren." Clarence snapped his fingers to catch her attention and waved the younger woman over. "Why don't you try Courtney out on the three-fifty-seven magnum? I want to talk to Ben for a minute."

"No problem," she said, grunting as she rose from her relaxed position against the fence.

Clarence turned around and started across the scrapyard. Ben already stood near the front of the scrapyard, a strange look plastered on his taut face as he graciously held the gate open. Clarence figured he heard what he said to Lauren, but was caught off guard by his readiness to talk nonetheless. Clarence swept past him and led the way towards the creek. The overcast sky had turned the murky water a pale gray and patches of frosty ice lined the rocky banks. Clarence trudged forward, leaving a trail of large footprints through the otherwise undisturbed snow. Ben kept pace, occasionally casting Clarence a curious glance.

Neither of them said a word until they were well out of earshot from the others. Then, Clarence came to a stop at a steep, heavily wooded area a few yards from the creek. "So," he began, locking Ben into his firm, stony gaze. He'd been slowly racking up things he'd like to say to the man for a month, but now that they were face to face, Clarence found his resentment fizzling out. Sure, Ben still used group resources even though he no longer contributed, and maybe he didn't like the way he'd just up and left without a word, but a verbal ass-chewing didn't seem like the appropriate response anymore. Some of the tension left Clarence's rigid posture as he sighed. "Has your dad been keeping you in the loop?" he asked, deciding it was best to start slow.

"Not really," Ben replied. He buried his hands in the pockets of his dark bomber jacket and leaned back against a nearby tree. The way he opened his mouth but paused, staring off at the slow, rippling water, led Clarence to believe he had something else to say. If he did, he must've thought better of it. Ben clamped his mouth shut and snapped his eyes back to Clarence.

"Well...a lot of things have changed," Clarence said. He had to wonder if Ben even knew about their three absent people, or his plans to leave Red Fox Creek. Just how much had Jerome and Marvin sheltered him, as if he was some fragile thing that was going to break at the slightest stressor? They hadn't done him any favors. He was stepping back into the real world, a harsh, nasty one he'd had the luxury of hiding from. Clarence grit his teeth at the thought. "Maybe I should've visited but hell, I didn't know what to think when you dragged your trailer out of camp," he admitted quietly. He lowered his gaze to the hard, snowy ground beneath his boots. "_Nobody_ knew what to think."

Ben nodded slowly. Gunshots from the shooting lesson at the scrapyard rang distantly through the woods. He sniggered, turning his cold blue eyes on Clarence. "Having them do that out there is an interesting choice," he commented. "I hope there aren't any walkers along the road that can hear them."

"I haven't seen a walker out there in _weeks_," Clarence retorted, his voice sharp with contempt. Ben would've known that himself had he bothered to check in once in a while, at least _act_ like he gave a damn. All of Clarence's irritation came back in a rushing flood. Who did Ben think he was to show up out of the blue after a month and question him? Clarence ran a hand through his thick, black-and-pepper mustache. "Have you got something to say?" he questioned.

"You've really stepped up but that doesn't make this your group," Ben said bluntly, shrugging. "That's all." Clarence scoffed and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head, but before he had a chance to respond, Ben continued, "I know you want to go to Juneau and that's fine, I just hope you're not under the impression we're all tagging along. With that warm welcome back there, I'm not sure who's even with me anymore." Ben's face fell for only a moment before the stony expression returned. "But whoever 'my group' might be now, we're not going to Juneau," he said, "And if you're gonna stay with us, you're gonna have to respect that. That's way too big of a gamble with no supplies and no real plan."

"And what exactly is _your_ plan, Ben?" Clarence chuckled smugly. For someone who had supposedly been out of his mind with grief, he sure had some strong opinions.

"Right now I'm thinking about Anchorage," Ben said.

"Anchorage?" Clarence repeated, mouth falling open in disbelief before he erupted into harsh, humorless laughter. "Man, you've _got_ to be shitting me," he said through a cold grin. "You're gonna go to the biggest damn city in the whole state but look down your nose at me for hoping Juneau's alright?" He whistled and shook his head. "Hats off to you, Ben. I'll admit, I don't have balls that big." Last he knew, the population of Anchorage was almost _three hundred thousand_ people. More than half of them had to have been walkers by now. Faced with that prospect, Clarence was more confident than ever that he knew what he was doing. Juneau was much smaller, but that was the whole point. Less people, less walkers. Surely whoever might've set up military cordons or quarantine zones had to have been smart enough to figure that out too. If there was any type of organized, official survival effort left in Alaska, it was bound to be there.

Ben's eyebrows pressed close together, drawing out the lines on his forehead. "I'm not gonna stand here and justify myself," he said. "Just tell me loud and clear, are you with me or not?"

"No," Clarence replied, shaking his head resolutely. "I'm not, Ben. Keisha and I already talked this over a hundred times and we decided we'd be going on our own if it came down to this."

"You're sure?" he questioned, tipping his head doubtfully.

Clarence nodded. "Positive," he answered.

"Okay." Ben exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry to see you go, and I mean that," he said, meeting Clarence's eyes with sincerity. "You've been very valuable to this group."

Though he had no intentions of saying so out loud, Clarence had to grudgingly admit to himself that he felt the same way about Ben. There were many things they didn't see eye-to-eye on, but there was also one trait they shared: initiative. Both of them were the type of people who didn't like to let anyone else take the lead. Brandon, Lauren, Peggy, Samantha, Jake - they were all comfortable looking to Ben and Clarence for guidance rather than taking the reins themselves. And there was nothing wrong with that, there was a reason almost every business, organization, or group in the world had a certain pecking order. President, vice president, cabinet. Chief, lieutenant, officers. There just had to be _one_ person in charge for it to work, not two people who had become polar opposites fighting for power.

What gave Clarence pause was realizing who Ben really was. Clarence had learned to stand on his own two feet during his time as a Marine. There was a reason their motto was _The Few, The Proud_. If you weren't a tough, headstrong bastard, you didn't survive. Especially not after being sent off to Vietnam. But Ben, just a _gold miner_ of all things, had developed that steel exterior and determination all on his own.

For several long minutes, Clarence and Ben had stood in silence, minds racing. The only noise was the soft sloshing of the creek as the wind picked up. Then, Clarence chuckled dully. "I sure didn't imagine things playing out like this when you picked me and my family up off the side of the road," he said, shaking his head ruefully. He'd been so naive back then, thinking this would all blow over in a few weeks.

"You can take food, weapons, whatever you need." Ben flippantly waved his hand and started back towards the scrapyard.

"And what about a vehicle?" Clarence doubted they were ever gonna see Peggy's truck again and he had no right to Brandon's bus. They'd kept the vehicle count low to preserve gasoline, but they were gonna have to expand their fleet if they were going their separate ways. Clarence snorted, one eyebrow quirking upwards. When the seconds ticked by and Ben seemed to still be mulling over the question, Clarence sarcastically added, "Would you like us to walk?"

"We'll go out tomorrow and get you a car," Ben said. "We're gonna need a second vehicle anyway if the truck is a loss."


	10. Ten: Gasoline

As night fell over Red Fox Creek and everyone was peacefully tucked away in their beds, Jerome laid awake. He stared up at the pitch black nothingness inside of the dining trailer, trying desperately to fight the growing heaviness of his eyelids. Sleep had become his worst enemy. For weeks, his short and fitful slumbers were scarred by nightmares and the gory flashes of his most haunting memories. He'd give anything for a stash of caffeine pills, something to hold off the inevitable a little longer. No matter how much he tried to stay awake, the long days filled with physical labor always left him wiped out.

Dread settled in Jerome's gut like a cold stone as his consciousness faded away...

"_Let go of me!" Jerome bellowed and tried to yank his arm out of the stranger's death grip to no avail. He could see the shadowy stranger's mouth moving in the fiery flashes of muzzle blast, but whatever he said was drowned out by the deafening, constant gunfire. Freshly turned walkers were closing in all around, stealing escape routes one by one. Rachel pounded frantically on Jerome's shoulder, and he could tell by the urgency in her eyes that it was time to go. Jerome's free hand found the knife in his belt, and in one swift motion, he plunged the blade into the stranger's gut. The young man released Jerome at once. Both hands went to his stomach after Jerome had retracted the knife. Slick blood splattered the asphalt at their feet. "I'm sorry," Jerome croaked, unable to tear his eyes from the dark splotch on the man's shirt, the potentially fatal stab wound __**he**_ _had delivered. There was a brief lull in the gunfire and the man's wet gasps as he staggered backwards nearly stopped Jerome's heart. "I'm sorry. I had to. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." he repeated, louder and louder as Rachel took his other arm and started dragging him along with her and Emma…_

For the first time in his life, Jerome had started reliving exact recounts of his past experiences in dreams. His chest heaved lightly at the memories of running through the dark, unsure if he and his family would ever see the light of day again. His elbows thumped against the thinly carpeted floor as he tossed and turned inside his sleeping bag. Just far enough away to remain oblivious, Emma and Rachel snoozed in their own heaps of blankets. He was briefly aware of a draft from under the door chilling the sweat on his face before he drifted off again.

_Jerome drove along in his old car, Rachel beside him and Emma in the backseat. All three of them were smiling and Emma sang cheerfully to some pop tune on the radio. The sun shined impossibly bright in a cloudless, beautiful summer sky. "Hey, Jerome," Rachel started, pausing to turn down the music. "Where are we going?" _

_Jerome frowned. He was certain he should've had an answer, but his mind was blank. "I don't know," he said, his voice flat. There was nothing but straight highway ahead as far as he could see, completely void of any other vehicles._

"_No, you need to tell me." Every shred of joy had disappeared from Rachel's face, replaced with anger. Slowly, she repeated, "Where..are...we...going?"_

"_I-I told you, I don't know," Jerome glanced at her nervously. Something wasn't right. The look in her eyes had become one of pure hatred. His heart thumped faster and faster as a strange feeling of foreboding crept in._

_She slapped him on the arm and screeched, "Where are we going? WHERE ARE WE GOING, JEROME?" The sky outside faded from blue to gray as she repeated her question over and over, increasingly loud and furious. Her last "WHERE ARE WE GOING?" was harshly cut off as something smashed into the side of the car. _

_The car tumbled over and over across the asphalt, coming to rest in a ditch. Jerome groaned at the pounding in his head and forced his burning eyes open. Rachel's seat was empty, but the way he was now laying, Jerome had a straight view into the backseat. Emma was still upright in her seat, looking back at him with wide eyes. The pop song on the radio was gone, replaced with a familiar, crackly emergency broadcast message. _

"_...uncountable severe emergencies in all counties, Alaska cities and their levels of disaster are as follows...Anchorage, stage seven catastrophe. Nome, stage nine catastrophe. Fairbanks, stage nine catastrophe. Juneau, stage eight disaster. Once again, Nome and Fairbanks are now stage nine catastrophes…"_

_Emma's meek, scared little voice said, "Papa?" then broke into frantic screaming as walkers appeared at the windows. The glass was gone and they reached inside with ease, clawed hands just inches from her bare arms. She pulled and pulled at her seatbelt but it refused to release. "It's stuck, I can't get out," she wailed, looking desperately to Jerome._

"_Baby, I'm coming," he gasped. Jerome tried to squirm out of his seat but found he couldn't move at all. He was pinned against the dashboard from the chest down. No amount of flailing freed him, all of his strength was used to try and push the seat off of him in vain. He couldn't even turn his head, he had no choice but to watch as the walkers dragged themselves through the windows, one on top of the other. One walker in particular caught Jerome's eye. It had a blurry mess for a face but an auburn ponytail like Rachel. As Emma's screaming seemed to become one continuous sound, the walker's bared teeth neared her shoulder…_

Jerome sucked in a desperate breath like a drowning man gasping for air. He sat straight up and had already started kicking his way out of the sleeping bag before his surroundings registered. The darkened interior of the dining trailer slowly came into focus - the small kitchen at one end, and heap of boxes behind the table. There were no walkers, there was no car, and Emma wasn't in danger. Jerome snatched the lantern from beside his pillow and clicked it on with trembling fingers. He had to _see_ to know, to make sure it wasn't real. The soft glow of LED light illuminated Emma's curled up form. Her innocent face was slack with sleep, undoubtedly off in happier dreams than her father. Rachel was laying with her back facing Jerome, but just the sight of her took some of the tension out of his rigid muscles.

He glanced at his crumpled bedding and briefly considered going back to sleep. The thought had popped into his head for all of a second before he muttered, "Fuck that." This was the last straw. He could handle reliving the fall of Fort McAdams like some twisted timewarp, but seeing his wife and daughter like that was too much. These weren't the nightmares he had before, where it was just nonsense scenarios that were over as soon as he woke up because they were impossible. Losing Rachel and Emma was _very_ possible. And the fact that he now couldn't go to sleep without being reminded of that made him angry. He knew it was irrational; who the hell was he mad at, his own brain? But nevertheless, Jerome's blood boiled a little hotter every moment. One thing he knew for sure was that he needed to do _something_ besides sit there stewing in his own misery. He moved through the trailer as quietly as he could, pulling on his boots and zipping up his coat.

Lantern in hand, Jerome went out the door. The frigid air hit hard against his flushed, clammy face but he charged onward. There was no way to sneak across ground so icy and crisp, so Jerome wasn't surprised when Brandon called out. "Hey, what are you doing up so early?" He asked, barely above a whisper. He stood from his chair on the roof of Peggy's trailer and came to crouch at the edge.

"Just need some air," Jerome answered, lingering but the sooty remains of their campfire. His gaze flicked to the dim outline of their dwindling woodpile at the front of Lauren's trailer. Firewood, that's what he could go look for. They had been burning more than usual anyway thanks to the cold and the snow had dampened the rest beyond use. Jerome was aware of Brandon's eyes following his every move as he grabbed the ax from where it had been leaning against the wood and dropped into the driver's seat of the ATV.

"Whoa, what are you doing? Jerome?" Brandon huffed as he got no response. He hurried down the ladder and jogged over to the passenger's side. "What are you doing?" he repeated. "Nobody else will be up for another hour or so."

Jerome's eyebrows rose a little at that. He'd certainly slept longer than he thought. "Well, I can look for firewood by myself," he said, laying the ax across the seat.

"In the dark?" Brandon pursed his lips when Jerome held up the lantern. "Dude, did you forget about the bear that almost ate your face the other day? Or you know...walkers?"

"Don't worry about it," Jerome snapped. He backed out before Brandon could reply, leaving him standing there with his mouth hanging open. The ATV's headlights sliced through the misty darkness as he drove out of camp and along the bumpy creekside path.

For the next two hours, Jerome took his time scouring the woods. Dawn came and went while he meandered through the paths less traveled, doing a lot more thinking than anything else. He scuffed his boot against a slick patch of ice that sparkled like glitter and sighed. The memory of how he'd talked to Brandon kept popping into his head without warning. He definitely owed him an apology. There was no excuse for the way he'd snapped at him, especially when his concerns were valid. Even though he hadn't seen anything livelier than a squirrel, the pocket knife at Jerome's hip wasn't so reassuring once the nightmare fog cleared. He must've been six or seven miles from camp, much farther than he'd ever ventured while working at Red Fox. It was dumb of him to venture this far into unknown territory, alone and unarmed, and he was sure he'd be getting an earful once he got back to camp.

Jerome slowly trudged back to the ATV and dumped his armful of dry logs into the back with the others, pausing to drum his numb, chapped fingers against the frame. He _had _to be stronger.

By the time he drove back to camp, everyone else was awake. All eyes turned to him as he parked the ATV and climbed out. The picnic table was covered in pieces of rope, batteries, matches, and other things Clarence had been storing in his tent. He straddled the bench and was sorting the odds and ends into different tubs he had set in the snow. "It's about damn time," he said, flashing Jerome a stern look. "Where have you been?"

Jerome fought down a sigh. He had broken so many of Clarence's rules he'd lost track - going out of camp alone, after dark, and taking the ATV without notice were just a few of his offenses - but he _really_ wasn't in the mood for a lecture. "Looking for firewood," he answered, motioning towards the gathered wood. He glanced at Brandon, who had surely told Clarence where he'd gone before now. The younger man stood chatting with Lauren near a cluster of trees and simply nodded to Jerome in greeting before resuming his conversation.

"For hours?" Clarence questioned, his tone haughty with disbelief. Jerome simply stared back at him, bewildered. What else could he have been doing? It wasn't like Red Fox Creek offered any ways to goof off. After a few long, awkward moments, Clarence huffed and shook his head. "Whatever, man."

Rachel started over, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She glanced at the heap of wood and gave a small smile. "Just something to pass the time or do you think we're gonna use all that here?"

Jerome fought the urge to roll his eyes. Rachel had the subtlety of a rock sometimes. She obviously wanted to talk about the future again, just when Jerome would've been happy to discuss anything else. He grabbed a log from the ATV and set it upright on a flat patch of earth, then grabbed the ax. "I don't think you really know what it's like out there," he said quietly, hoping to conceal their conversation from the others. He swung down and grunted as the dull blade chopped the wood into two pieces. "Maybe I don't either, all I know is what happened when me and Ben went out before...I wasn't ready for it."

"You've never really told me what happened," Rachel said, pressing her lips together.

"I didn't want to freak you out." Jerome stalked back to the ATV and tossed a few logs towards his makeshift chopping block. No matter how hard he tried to keep them at bay, flashes of that day came rushing back. He'd really thought he was going to die, and it wasn't easy to see how close Ben had come to being bitten, but worst of all was the little girl walker. He thought of her a lot. What happened to her, and where were her parents now? Jerome shook his head to ground himself in the present as he realized he'd paused for way too long. "The details aren't important," he said. "What's stuck with me are the things I had to do. I just kept stabbing and shooting until there was a pile of bodies knee deep. That's all I _could_ do, that's the only reason we got out."

"It will get easier. I don't know if that's a good thing or not, but it will." Rachel hesitantly rubbed his back. Around them, camp life carried on as usual. Marvin wandered over to join Brandon and Lauren's chit-chatting. Courtney stood outside her and Peggy's trailer, scraping ice off the windows. All of them had probably done the same as Jerome or worse, but if they carried the same guilt, they sure didn't show it. Jerome drove his ax down with more effort than before, sending the blade a few inches into the dirt. Rachel flinched and took a little step back. Her eyes widened. "Honey," she started softly, a hint of pity in her tone. "I know this has been hard for you - "

"Has it not been hard for you?" Jerome demanded, whirling around to face her. "Right after the plaza explosion, we stopped in a pharmacy to get something for the cut on my arm, remember?" He held out his forearm and waved it around. "Huh? Do you even remember shooting a boy in the head to get medicine for my arm? Or is it just _easy_ for you already?"

"It hadn't been a boy for quite some time." Rachel squared her shoulders and pinned Jerome in her steely gaze.

Jerome gnawed at his bottom lip so hard he was surprised he hadn't drawn blood. He took deep, slow breaths, trying to get a lid on his mounting anger, but the fire in his chest only grew. "Whatever _it_ might be, they're constantly in my head," he spat. "I wonder what they were like, where their families are, if maybe they could've been helped one day had I not blown their fucking brains out." Firewood suddenly seemed like the least important thing in the world. Jerome tossed the ax aside, allowing it to clatter across the woodpile by Lauren's trailer. "They're with me every time I close my eyes, the man I stabbed at Fort McAdams, too. They haunt me. I hate it, but you know what? Maybe that's better than not giving a damn."

Rachel stood frozen in place. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. "I've never seen you like this," she said, barely above a whisper. An attempt at privacy was moot by now; everyone within earshot was ogling them with varying degrees of shocked expressions.

Jerome sank down onto a log and swept a trembling hand down his face. "This can't be it. There's something more, there just has to be," he muttered, scrubbing at his forehead. He wasn't sure whether his words were meant for Rachel or the whole camp, or if anyone was actually listening. He just wanted someone else who hadn't given up. "You mean to tell me every single trace of government, military, FEMA, Red Cross, all of it is gone for good? I don't believe that. I _can't _believe that."

"We're not gonna find out one way or the other from here. You know that, right?" Rachel asked gently.

Jerome sighed heavily and admitted, "Yes, I do." For Emma's sake, if nothing else, he needed to stop burying his head in the sand. He knew deep down that staying at Red Fox through winter wasn't a viable option, it wasn't even realistic, but the alternative shook him to his core. Some naive part of him was desperately hanging onto the belief that there were traces of civilization left out there, they just had to find it. But if there wasn't, if Anchorage turned out to be like Fairbanks with no refugee centers, no military, _nothing_, that was it. No civilization meant there would be no cure. It meant nobody was working to make things right again. And if that was the case, Jerome was nowhere near ready to face it.

* * *

Rural Fairbanks whizzed by in a blur of white and green. The sea of firs, spruces, aspens, and other tall trees on either side of the road were the most happy and normal things Lauren had seen for miles. She knew this route well and had grown accustomed to the abandoned cars and dark houses with boarded windows that were plentiful along the way, but something about seeing it all covered in a layer of snow magnified the gloominess. When the first whispers of something strange going on had started that summer, Lauren would have never guessed _this_ was what her winter would be like. Survival of the fittest, with no end in sight.

She sighed and slyly snuck a glance at her companions. Clarence sat across the aisle, slouched down in his seat. His legs were outstretched and his arms crossed tightly over his chest, giving him the appearance of a sulking teenager. Ben was just in front of Lauren, in the driver's seat. Brown, chunky splatters had been pushed to either side of the windshield by the wiper blades. She had never noticed it until she was getting on the bus. Clumps of hair and bone were stuck in the bumper, too. _Yuck_, she thought, scrunching her nose and turning back to the window. Ben and Clarence hadn't uttered a word since boarding the bus thirty minutes earlier, and all of Lauren's attempts at conversation were met with two-word responses at best. She wasn't sure what all had happened between the two, but she hoped they could at least be civil to one another until Clarence and his family left.

Clarence asked, "Are we heading anywhere particular?"

"I think parking lots are our best bet," Ben answered.

Lauren frowned. That seemed like a random choice to her, almost too obvious. Anyone else left in Fairbanks that needed a car probably had the same idea. She suggested, "What about car dealerships?"

Clarence scoffed. "I doubt they're just sitting there with keys in the ignition and tanks full of gas."

Ben grunted in agreement. "Figuring out how to hotwire cars is at the top of my to-do list once we're settled in the next place."

"To-do list?" Lauren snorted in amusement. All three of them swayed as the bus rolled over a pothole. "What else is on there? Pick up the dry cleaning, buy more eggs?"

A faint smirk appeared on Ben's face for just a heartbeat before fading away. "Not quite," he said.

"You look at the big picture too much, man," said Clarence, flapping his hand dismissively. "It's the little things that matter."

Ben cocked his head to the side and glared at Clarence over his shoulder. "Why don't you enlighten me since you've got it all figured out?"

The edge to Ben's tone was a little too sharp. Clarence sat straighter and met Ben's gaze with a matching scowl of his own. Lauren held her breath, sure this was the explosion she'd been expecting, but then Clarence slowly relaxed back. He chuckled and grinned smugly. "Maybe I'll just keep my secrets to myself," he replied.

Any future attempts at conversation died at that. Lauren rolled her eyes and leaned her head against the window. She was really starting to miss Jake Turner. Almost every supply run she'd ever been on had been with him, and none were _this_ tense and uncomfortable. He may have been obnoxious at times, but he knew how to handle himself in the city. All she could hope for now was that his luck hadn't run out and she'd see him again, but that hope dimmed more and more with each passing day. Lauren couldn't help but feel a little guilty that she had allowed Carmen and Samantha to take her place. She'd never even had so much as a close call before. She couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had happened to them wouldn't have happened at all had she just stuck to her usual role.

Lauren was pulled from her somber thoughts when the bus slowed down. Ben pulled up beside a curb and said, "This will do." He cut the engine and leaned forward to peer out the doors. Beyond the cracked sidewalk, a parking lot leading up to a grocery store. Vehicles had been haphazardly abandoned among the overturned shopping carts and garbage. A long dead corpse laid face down by the front of the store but that was the only body in sight, dead or otherwise. Ben turned to Lauren, his eyes wide with mild panic. "Did you bring the stuff?"

"Right here." Lauren produced the little rubber hose from her pocket and lifted the plastic gas jug that had been between her feet. She motioned to the back of the bus, where there were several more jugs for both gasoline the bus's much needed diesel. "No need to worry about fuel as long as I don't lose the taste for it," she said, flashing him a friendly smile.

He exhaled in relief and shook a finger at her approvingly. "At least one of us has our head on straight," he said. "That's what I want you to focus on. Me and Clarence are gonna check out the vehicles." Ben flipped a switch on the dashboard and the doors slid open. He pulled a bowie knife from his belt and led the way out, looking anxiously towards either end of the street. Clarence trailed after him with one hand resting cautiously on his holster.

Lauren brought up the rear and pushed the doors closed behind her, pausing to give their surroundings a once-over now that she could see clearly. Loose pieces of trash gathered along the gutters and occasionally skipped down the street on the breeze. The tall, dark windows of the grocery store loomed ahead, reflecting Ben and Clarence like a mirror as they moved methodically through the parking lot. 'Proverbs 21:26' was scribbled onto the faded cardboard sign that hung from the grimy double doors.

Lauren stopped at the first car in the lot and popped the gas hatch open. She slid one end of the siphon hose inside, then sipped at the other end. Gasoline came up faster than she was expecting, and the moment it hit her tongue, she tore her head away to spit and gag, but managed to jam the hose into the jug. A few ounces of gas drizzled in, but the stream seemed to end just as quickly as it had started - hardly worth the effort.

"This blows, man." Clarence approached a newer, silver car in decent shape. All of the windows were covered in a frost so thick it only smeared around when he scraped his gloved hand over it. Grumbling, he tried to open the door and threw his hands up when it refused. "What am I supposed to do if I can't even see inside?"

"Don't mess with them if the door won't open," Ben said, pinning his firm gaze on Clarence meaningfully. "I know you're eager to get a car today but we don't need to set off any car alarms." He stood a space over from Lauren, inspecting a rusty van. His hand shot into the air, silently cutting off Clarence as he opened his mouth to argue. Raspy noises came from somewhere down the parking lot. Two walkers wandered from behind a couple of vehicles near the sidewalk. He said, "I've got it," and stormed off with his knife raised before anybody else could respond. He dropped both walkers with swift, squishy blows to the forehead, then returned to the van.

Clarence muttered under his breath as he stormed from car to car. Lauren followed behind him, waiting until he cursed and moved onto the next one to drain the gas tanks. By the time they had checked the left side of the parking lot, he still hadn't found a viable vehicle and Lauren was _really_ over the taste of gasoline.

She strolled over to Ben, who was peering under the hood of an SUV. "Have you found anything?" she asked. The plastic jug, just over halfway full, had grown heavy so she set it atop the SUV's roof and shoved her hands in her pockets, relishing the warmth as it bit away at the cold clinging to her skin.

"Yeah, a lot of shitty cars," Ben replied, shaking his head. "This one isn't too bad but it doesn't want to start." He planted his hands on his hips and continued, "If I had to guess, I'd say it is just the battery. These cars have all probably been sitting here since the start."

"Might want to add 'find jumper cables' to the to-do list, huh?" Lauren's mouth quirked over to one side.

"We have some at camp." Ben slammed the hood down and shook his head irritably. "I just didn't think to bring them."

"Oh…" Lauren couldn't stop her gaze from drifting to the grocery store. Her true place was in there, taking whatever was left for the group. "I want to go inside and check things out," she said, starting towards the building without another thought.

"That's not what we're here for," Ben said.

"Come on, we have nothing," she insisted, turning to him with a frown. "That gas can is almost full."

"_Full_?" His tone was somewhere between incredulous and amused. He tapped the jug with the back of his hand, sending the meager liquid within sloshing around. "You've got like, _maybe_ two gallons," he said, raising his eyebrows at her dubiously. When Lauren only pursed her lips in response, silently pleading him to let her do something that was actually useful, Ben sighed. He ran hand through his graying hair, further musing it up. "Just stay within earshot. If it really looks good inside, come back out and we'll all go in together," he told her, giving a nod of approval.

"You got it," Lauren replied. She strode across the parking lot and into the grocery store. One hand gravitated towards the gun tucked into her waistband as she entered the darkened lobby. Patches of dim sunlight came through high windows, leaving pale golden rectangles across the dirty tile. Dry leaves and twigs swept inside by the wind crunched under her boots. Empty bags and boxes littered the floor every few feet. She stepped over and pulled a plastic bag free from where it had been pinned under an overturned shopping cart, just in case she found anything worth taking.

Most of the displays and aisles she passed had been picked clean, but she did find a canister of oatmeal intact and gladly placed it in her bag. Lauren had to wonder where all of this stuff was going. They hadn't ran into any other people since Samantha joined the group, so _why_ was everywhere they went cleared of supplies? Unless everyone else had looted these places out at the beginning and skipped town, there must have been other survivors holed up somewhere in Fairbanks.

What little fruit left in the produce section had been left to rot. All of the apples and oranges laid shriveled and brown, their over-ripened odors all but drowned out under the all-too-familiar stench of death that hung in the air. Lauren coughed in disgust and pressed her nose into the crook of her arm. She slowly moved towards a dark, vaguely human-like figure in the shadows and halted as soon as her eyes focused. A young boy sat between his parents, eyes sunken into his rotting sockets. A large chunk had been ripped out of his neck. All three of them had gaping holes in their head, evidenced by the large crimson splatters caked on the wall behind them. The father's hand hung limply next to his leg, the fingers still curled from where they'd once been wrapped around a gun.

Lauren sighed and forced herself to move on, but the image of that little family remained at the front of her mind. Neither of the parents appeared to have been bitten. They must have decided to just go out with their son, together. Losing her friends sucked, but Lauren couldn't imagine how much harder it would be if she had parents, siblings, or children to worry about. As soon as that thought passed through her head, Lauren cringed and said a silent apology to her parents - she actually had no idea whether she'd already lost them or not. Last she knew, they were vacationing in Florida, and it wasn't like she had made any real effort to reach them. By the time it became clear that whatever was going on wasn't ending anytime soon, a trip from one end of the continent to the other just seemed too ridiculous to even consider.

She strolled down an aisle labeled 'preserves, canned vegetables, and soups' next, grateful for something to focus on. Dark shapes sparsely dotted the shelves. Pasta, two jars of apricot preserves, and a large can of sweet potatoes would hardly make a decent meal, but she swept it all into her bag anyway.

A shrill, blaring alarm shattered the silence. In one swift motion, Lauren flattened herself against the shelf and pulled the pistol from her belt. She cursed under her breath; Ben or Clarence must have set off a car alarm after all. Low groans came from somewhere past the end of the aisle, a part of the store Lauren hadn't explored. Her wide eyes darted around, desperately searching for a hiding place, only to come up blank. Heart in her throat, she ran the way she came, only to stumble to a stop at the end. Walkers poured out of a darkened section of the store. A couple wore the tattered polo shirts and slacks that comprised the employee uniforms but most donned shorts and sundresses.

Lauren surged back down the aisle once again, slowing just before the corridor ended. Her fingers twitched against the gun as she peeked around the corner. Half a dozen walkers wandered aimlessly in an open space before the dairy section, bumping into displays. They hissed and craned their heads around curiously. _The way the alarm's echoing must be throwing them off_, Lauren thought, giving the gun in her hands a forlorn glance. It would be so simple to start popping off rounds, but if she fired even one shot, the walkers at the front of the store would swarm on her like a pack of rabid dogs. Her attention moved beyond the walkers and landed on the freezers along the back wall, illuminated by the window above as if in a spotlight. The unit was tall and long enough to give Lauren an escape..._if_ she could make it to the top.

Gunshots boomed in the distance. While the walkers were further distracted, Lauren scurried through the shadows until she reached the freezers. She pulled open the nearest door and braced her foot against the lowest shelf. It slipped under her weight and slammed onto the floor with a deafening clatter just as the alarm finally ceased. Lauren's chest tightened as dread fell over her. Any of the walkers that had been leaving now had their attention on her, and all of them were lumbering towards her with purpose.

Their throaty barks of desperation launched Lauren into action. She tossed the bag of food to the roof of the freezer, then started up the remaining shelves. Her breath grew heavy and ragged as the undead neared her on every side. As she reached the top, Lauren struggled to find purchase atop the freezers. Her fingers slipped around on the sharply cold, dusty metal until she managed to claw her way up. Just as her hips slid past the top, a hand clamped around her ankle. Lauren shrieked and kicked frantically with both legs. She flipped over and found at least a dozen walkers clustered together below, arms reaching for her. The one latched onto her leg strained its neck upwards, clacking teeth edging closer and closer.

"No!" Lauren screamed and delivered a kick to the walker's head. Half of the flesh on its face sloughed off, leaving a bulging eyeball. She kicked again and again until she'd caved in the front of its skull and the walker collapsed for good. She scrambled onto the freezer and pressed herself against the cool wall, knees pulled up to her heaving chest. Her boot was coated in thick, brown muck. Shielding her face with one arm, Lauren aimed her gun at the window nearby and sent every bit of the glass flying with a single shot. Sparing one last glance to the growing mass of grabbing hands waiting below, Lauren looped the grocery bag around her arm and hurled herself out the window.

Her freefall ended when she smacked against the concrete. All of the air left her upon impact, leaving her wheezing and coughing. The gunshots she'd heard inside continued, only now she could faintly hear voices beneath the repetitive booms. Lauren used the building's cracked brick exterior to support herself as she shakily got to her feet. She snatched her pistol up from where it laid by a bag of garbage and hobbled around the corner.

Lauren stopped and blinked in shock at the sight that met her. Clarence stood atop the rusty van with his pistol raised, steadily dropping walkers with each shot he fired. There weren't as many as inside the store, but more seemed to be appearing out of nowhere. After a certain number, it didn't how much the cold slowed them down anymore. Clarence's near-rhythmic firing stalled when the van began to shake from the walkers piling against either side.

"Clarence, let's _go_ already," Ben snapped. He was on the sidewalk, looking back and forth frantically as walkers started over from across the street.

"We can take 'em. This street is too good to give up on," Clarence retorted, resuming his calm gunfire. For a few long moments, all Ben did was stare at the back of Clarence with an angry gleam in his eye. Then shook his head and stalked towards the bus. He dropped three walkers along the way with vicious stabs between the eyes and hovered near the doors, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. While Clarence was focused on the biters at the back of the van, one made its way to the hood and began to climb up. He whirled around and seemed to not even aim as he dropped it with a single shot to the forehead.

Lauren moved past what cover the building offered to join the fight, pistol raised defensively. An elderly walker snarled and staggered towards her. She allowed it to get a little too close before pulling the trigger and blood sprayed out onto her coat. Ben's face lit up with surprise and he nodded to her in greeting. To no one in particular, she asked, "What the hell happened?"

"Clarence," Ben answered through grit teeth.

Two more walkers threw themselves at the van, causing it to creak and lurch forward. Clarence yelped and dropped to a knee. "Dammit," he cursed, slowly rising back up. "Forget what I said, we've gotta go." He raised his gun once more and killed enough walkers to make himself an escape route, then leapt over the waiting cluster of arms. He landed with a grunt and ran onward, weaving around the bodies and snagging the forgotten gasoline jug along the way. Lauren anxiously waited at the edge of the parking lot, desperate to run but determined to watch Clarence's back. Once he'd cleared the walkers and had a good head start, they headed out together, sharing a knowing look of relief; this was _way_ too close.

Ben was pinned against the bus doors by a single walker. He fought frantically to raise his knife, but his arms were underneath the walker's. The walker's mouth was agape and headed for his neck. Ben was whimpering like an animal caught in a trap, unable to form words, his eyes bulging in horror. Lauren bowled past Clarence and grabbed the walker by its shirt collar. It snarled angrily as its chance for a meal was snatched away. Lauren roared with the effort and hurled it backwards. The walker toppled over and hit the sidewalk. Clarence stomped its forehead, bringing forth an eruption of sludge.

* * *

On the drive back to camp, Ben's fingers were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel he wasn't sure he would ever be able to let go. That walker had come within about two seconds of sinking its teeth into his throat and he had only himself to blame. The bastard seemed to come out of nowhere. It was just on him in a flash, with shocking strength and force. Ben would've swore he still felt that hot, rank breath lingering on his skin.

The ugly truth was he'd been too busy watching Clarence and Lauren, trying to decide if they were going to make it, figuring out how long he could - or would - wait for them. Fear had turned him into someone he didn't know. Anger planted ideas he'd never expected from his own head. When the walkers were closing in and all Ben could see were those dragging feet and empty eyes, his only thought had been it was Clarence's own damn fault if they got him. He was the one who triggered the alarm by trying to get into a locked car. And Lauren? Well, Ben did tell her to stay within shouting distance. Obviously she hadn't obeyed that or she would've heard him screaming for her.

Maybe it was just his guilt, but Ben would've swore they knew what he had been thinking. Something about the look in Lauren's eyes at their next stop made his heart skip a beat, and not in a good way. At his urgence, she'd wound up driving behind him in an older model Buick with chipped paint they found at a post office. Clarence chose a blue Ford Escape and could've started back to Red Fox for all Ben cared, but he decided to stick around. "You guys might need an extra hand," he had said.

With both of them off in their own vehicles, Ben had the bus to himself for the next twenty miles. The sun sank lower and lower in a vast expanse of reds and pinks as the Fairbanks skyline shrunk away in their rearview mirrors. Winter was on the horizon, plunging Alaska into dusk a little earlier each day. Ben zoned out more than he liked to admit on the drive home, eyes fixed on the road but not really seeing. A slip like that could never happen again.

Ben's energy seemed to vanish like dust in the wind as he made the wide turn into camp and familiar faces popped into view. Brandon was kicked back in a lawn chair atop the Peterson's trailer. He waved hello with the hand that didn't hold a shotgun. Jerome, Rachel, Emma, and Peggy sat at the picnic table, picking at whatever was on their plates. They looked up eagerly as the bus rolled down the path and three out of the four smiled in greeting. Ben parked the bus in its usual place by the treeline and hopped out.

Jerome pulled a walkie-talkie from his hip and spoke into it, a smirk lingering on his lips. "They're back, Marvin."

Ben strolled across camp and stopped at the end of the picnic table, hands in his pockets. "I'm sure we'll have to get more fuel along the way but we've got a good headstart for now," he said.

"That is one ugly ass car." Peggy grimaced at the turd-brown Buick as Lauren lined it up behind the bus.

Rachel giggled and pointed towards the dining trailer. "Dinner's waiting for you in there." The door flew open as Aaliyah came bounding out, grinning from ear to ear. She ran over to his father and wrapped her arms around his middle no sooner than he'd opened the car door. Keisha was fast behind her daughter and stood on her tiptoes to plant a smooch on Clarence's cheek. The three of them headed off towards their tent, speaking quietly.

Ben scoffed - you'd have thought the man had been gone for days - and started towards the trailer. But he hadn't taken more than three steps before Emma's quiet, concerned voice stopped him in his tracks. "Ben, your leg," she said. He turned around to find her frowning and staring downward, towards his left ankle. She asked, "What happened?"

To Ben's surprise, there was a tear at the calf of his cargo pants and the material was soaked red. Red, as in fresh blood, not the brown gunk that flew out of walkers. His breath caught in his throat, mind racing as he frantically tried to retrace his steps and recall if any of the walkers ever got near his legs. He didn't remember any ever being that low, but they were everywhere and adrenaline was known to mask pain.

"Were you bit?" Jerome asked. His wide eyes met Ben's and they shared a brief look of panic, then Ben yanked his pants leg up. A gash ran four inches along his lower calf. Most of the blood had seeped into his sock and dried up but the wound still glistened with wetness. "Okay, it's just a cut," Jerome said, exhaling sharply.

"Yeah." Ben nodded. He still wasn't positive how he'd hurt himself, but however it had happened, he was certain walkers had played no part. The wound was too clean, not the kind of jagged hole a bite left. "Some of those cars were rusty, I must have got snagged." Ben shrugged and stood up, letting his pants leg fall back down. "We both know if you get a cut like this without even feeling it, you were caught by something pretty sharp."

Rachel said, "You still need to let me take a look at it and patch you up." She took a final bite off her fork then set her utensils down. "Come on," she insisted, beckoning Ben to follow her. She stood and led the way into the dining trailer.

Even though all Ben wanted to do was get back to his own trailer and lay down, he reluctantly trailed behind her and plopped down into a dining chair once they were inside. Rachel crouched down and examined his leg. After a few moments, she clicked her tongue and said, "You really should have a few stitches but I don't have the supplies. All I can do is stick it together with some bandaids and hope for the best." Ben chuckled at that, a quip about her bedside manner on the tip of his tongue. She moved over to a tub near the table and dug through its contents until she had her hands full, then returned to Ben.

"I'm worried about Jerome," she stated, not looking up as she dabbed an ointment-smeared cotton ball along the gash. "I know you've got a lot going on already, but I think you should know he's been acting…" she took a long pause, blinking rapidly as she struggled to come up with the appropriate word. "Weird. Just really not himself."

Ben refrained from wincing as a fiery sting shot through his calf. He thought back over the past month, trying to remember if there were any occasions his friend seemed 'off', but came up blank. Then again, Jerome could've grown a second head and he probably wouldn't have noticed for the first three weeks after Kate died. "He's seemed fine to me," he said, shrugging.

"I'm sure he has." Rachel scoffed but didn't elaborate. She lined three bandaids over his wound and patted them down lightly. "I'll be honest, Ben," she began, her voice so low he had to lean down to hear her clearly. "I don't know if he can handle going all the way to Anchorage. He's been zoning out and having nightmares, apparently. This morning, he left camp before anyone else was up and snapped at Brandon." She rose to her feet and started slowly pacing back and forth, hands on her hips. "He just hopped in the ATV 'to look for firewood' and was gone for hours. I had a talk with him and the stuff he said would just blow your mind," Rachel said, smiling a tiny, nervous smile. The corner's of Ben's mouth pulled downwards in a frown. That all certainly sounded very unlike Jerome. "He finally agreed to go to Anchorage, so at least there's that," Rachel continued dryly, not giving Ben the chance to reply. "God, I felt like I was staging an intervention. But he's not letting go of anything, Ben. From Fort McAdams, to every walker he killed to get here, to what happened to you and him in Fairbanks. It's all weighing him down." Rachel huffed and abruptly dropped into a chair across from Ben. "I really think on some level, he still hasn't accepted walkers as non-human."

This revelation wasn't nearly as shocking to Ben as it seemed to be to Rachel. He ran a hand along his jaw thoughtfully, trying to come up with a fitting response. The truth was, he had been questioning what the future would look like for Jerome since he arrived. Some people could adapt and others couldn't, and it was hard to tell where Jerome would end up since he was months behind everyone else in terms of experience. Worry lines had created deep creases in Rachel's face and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. "Don't worry so much, okay?" Ben kept his tone light, hoping to reassure her. "He's still alive and that's what matters. We can deal with anything else along the way."


	11. Eleven: Forever and Always

The tent that Clarence had pitched in fifteen minutes was now the only thing keeping him from leaving Red Fox Creek. Months of exposure to the weather had left the stakes frozen into the ground and the poles thoroughly stuck together. Everything else the Evans family owned had been packed into boxes, tubs, and bags and shoved somewhere in their new car, but Clarence's fight to disassemble the tent was nearing the half hour mark. "Christ Almighty, it shouldn't be this hard…" he trailed off, muttering expletives under his breath. He braced the prongs of a claw hammer around one of the stakes and pulled upwards, gritting his teeth with the effort. The stake popped free of its icy hole and Clarence breathed a sigh of relief. "Hallelujah," he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

"Are you sure you don't need a hand?" Brandon asked. He and Marvin sat at the picnic table, watching Clarence's struggle with poorly masked smirks of amusement. They had been attempting to rig up some type of fishing pole for the better part of an hour. Clarence failed to see how they were going to catch anything with sticks, twine, and paperclips for fishhooks. He was almost disappointed he wouldn't be around to see how it turned out. _Almost_.

"I've got it." Clarence tossed the loosened stake into the tent's ratty duffel bag before moving on to the next one. "Just three more."

Brandon looked up from the mess of twine knotted around his fingers to glance at Clarence's SUV. The back hatch was raised and revealed just how little of the cargo space had been utilized. Two tubs and a couple bags were shoved in the leftmost corner, leaving two feet of extra room. Brandon's eyebrows furrowed together worriedly. He said, "So...you're sure that's all you need?"

"We're gonna pick things up along the way," Clarence replied, grunting as he popped another stake free. He grinned and added, "Don't forget, boys, there's a whole world of supplies out there for the taking."

Brandon nodded but the concern on his face hadn't lifted. "I'm sure we still have stuff to spare, right Marvin?" He looked to the older man seated across the table. "Aren't there some old shacks around here that might have something?"

Marvin scoffed. "The lovely wildlife around here have torn the miner's barracks up, building nests and pissing all over the place." He used a pocket knife to carve a notch towards the end of his barkless, branchless stick, then continued, "Sixty some years out in the elements hasn't done 'em any good either. I can't believe Samantha slept out there as long as she did." At the mention of Samantha, Brandon stopped fiddling with his fishing pole. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly. Marvin inhaled sharply and spluttered, "Oh, s-sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned her in, uh...the past tense. Samantha and Jake and your sister could still come back any time," he said, nodding encouragingly.

"How long do you think Ben is gonna wait around and see?" Brandon questioned, his voice low.

As if on cue, the sound of dried leaves crunching underfoot announced Ben's arrival to the main camp. The discussion died out as quickly as it had started as he strode over to the picnic table and sat down next to his father. Clarence couldn't help but chuckle to himself; the man's timing was perfect, and he wasn't about to let it go to waste. Too many people had been walking on eggshells around him for too long, and Clarence had never been one of them. "Well, Brandon," he said, "Why don't you ask him yourself?" Brandon cut him a dirty look out the corner of his eye and silently resumed his fervent knotting of the twine.

"Ask me what?" Ben looked quizzically to Clarence. "What's going on?"

Brandon gave a frustrated huff and rubbed the bank of his neck. "I've been meaning to ask...you know, since we have the extra car now and all...what do you think about looking around for my sister and the others?"

To Clarence's surprise, Ben seemed to actually be considering it. He scratched thoughtfully at his chin and asked, "How long have they been gone now?"

"This is day eight."

"_Psh_." Ben scoffed. Any consideration he might've been giving the idea had evaporated in an instant. "Come on, man. Eight days?" He swatted his hand through the air as if he was shooing away a pesky bug. Some of the rigidness faded from his posture at the crestfallen look that appeared on Brandon's face. A little more tactfully, he added, "If they're still out there, they can't have been in the same place this whole time. We'll be around here for three or four more days, that's plenty of time for them to show up if they're gonna."

"So that's it?" Brandon blinked irritably and motioned towards the exit road. "We're just gonna skip town when you know they could still be out there?"

"We just can't risk it, I'm sorry," Ben said firmly.

Brandon turned his gaze up to the overcast morning sky and gnawed at his lip for a few moments. When he looked back to Ben, there was an angry gleam to his dark eyes. "I think you'd feel a lot differently if that was your family," he said, shooting to his feet. He left the fishing pole behind and stalked off across camp.

"Gee, I'm so glad I came up here today," Ben muttered.

"You can't take it personally," Marvin said quietly. "Think about how hard it must be to not even know whether your sister is alive or dead or somewhere in between."

Clarence scoffed to himself and focused on dislodging the final tent spike. Things would be different without him at the helm of the group. Whether it would be for better or worse...that was one more thing he was _almost_ disappointed he wouldn't be around to know. Ben was getting a taste of what it was like to be 'the boss' when people were stressed, scared, _and_ running low on hope.

The door to the dining trailer creaked open and out came Rachel and Lauren. They strolled over to the picnic table together and Lauren rested her hands against the end. "Hey, Ben," she greeted. "We could really use anything we could get at this point. Food, medical supplies, water that didn't come from a creek...more winter gear couldn't hurt either." She glanced meaningfully down at her light, thin jacket gave a tight-lipped smile. "Is it cool if I go out today and see what I can find?"

"What, alone?" Ben frowned.

"Oh, no. I'm not nuts." Lauren nodded to Rachel. "She's going with me."

Ben's eyes widened. He stared at Rachel for a long, dubious moment, then questioned, "Does your husband know that?"

"Not yet," Rachel answered, discreetly pointing to somewhere beyond the trailers. Clarence followed her movement and saw Jerome poking around the spruce trees at the far end of camp with Adrian, Emma, and Aaliyah all three on his heels. Clarence wasn't sure what they were up to, but more than likely it had something to do with animals - Jerome's familiarity with Red Fox Creek and the signs that wildlife had been present was pretty popular with the kids. Much to Clarence's bewilderment, even finding piles of rabbit droppings had become a source of excitement. But it had kept the kids busy and gave them something to do besides get in trouble, so he had to hope Aaliyah's interest in the simple things would stick with her after they hit the road.

Once Clarence had popped the final stake out, he got to work on the poles that had supported the tent all this time. They were cruddy at the joints, especially the ones on top, and his fingers were getting sore from forcing them apart after the third one. "This damn tent!" he exclaimed. "If I hadn't put so much time in already, I'd say to hell with it. I could probably walk into the first garage I see in Fairbanks and find a better one." Whatever was going on around camp had mostly faded into the background of his focus, so his little outburst garnered some attention. Several sets of surprised, scrutinizing eyes turned to him, but no one responded. Clarence ran a hand over his mustache and returned to the tent poles, a little more force behind his movements this time.

It was as if nobody knew what to say to him, or perhaps they just didn't have anything _to_ say. In any case, the static silence really chapped his ass. Brandon had been the only one to initiate a conversation all morning and the kid barely knew him. But the people he'd lived with, dined with, and survived with for three months? Nothing. As much as he was beginning to wish it wasn't the case, he had grown to care about many of these people. Maybe the feeling wasn't mutual. After all, he'd expected at least some of them to join him, but they were all convinced Juneau was a suicide mission. Keeping the group afloat had been entirely up to him while Ben was off in the woods and yet they seemed to have no faith in him.

Rachel disappeared inside the dining trailer for a while, then returned carrying a bulging tote bag. She smiled politely as she approached the SUV where Keisha had been hanging out most of the morning. For whatever reason, she seemed to want to be alone, but had left the door open to keep an eye on things. Rachel handed over the bag and Clarence edged his way towards the car to get a peek inside. A box of bandaids, a half-empty tube of antibiotic ointment, and some other odds and ends laid among the brightly labeled cans of fruits and vegetables. "Thank you so much," Keisha said, earnestly clutching the bag to her chest. She looked gratefully at Rachel. "I can't tell you how much this means to me."

Clarence finished forcing the poles apart and tossed them in the bag, then folded up the tent itself. The nylon fabric crinkled loudly next to his ears for the next few minutes, but he forced it into the duffel and was finally able to zip it up. "Okay," he said, standing for a moment with his hands on his hips. "That's it."

The group quietly gathered around the SUV as Clarence shoved his tent in the back and closed the hatch. "So...that's really it?" Brandon asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "You're just gonna leave now?"

Clarence shrugged. "The more light we have to drive in, the better," he said. "No sense in hanging around."

Ben stepped forward and extended his hand. "Well...I wish you the best," he said.

"Thank you." Clarence accepted the handshake but kept it brief. He walked over to the driver's side door and climbed inside, then rolled down the window.

"Thank you all," Keisha said. "You've all been good to us."

Aaliyah sniffled as she hugged Emma. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you t-too," Emma said, her shoulders hitching. She pulled away from her friend and ran to where her father and mother stood, burying her face against Jerome.

"Alright, alright," Clarence said. "Come on, Aaliyah, hop in. And no more tears, sweetheart. This is a good thing. We're going to find somewhere that's good for us, and that's what they're going to do too." He forced a friendly smile to those who stood outside and started the engine. Once Keisha and Aaliyah had both buckled their seatbelts, Clarence waved a final goodbye and drove out of Red Fox Creek for the last time.

* * *

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing?" Ben cast his father a sidelong glance, the air around them still and hushed as they trudged through the snow back towards their trailer. "You know, with Jake, Carmen, and Samantha. Anchorage. More or less sending Clarence off." He gnawed at his lip, watching with mounting worry as Marvin frowned and seemed to be thinking hard about his answer. In just over a week, the group had dropped from sixteen people to ten and Ben wasn't sure how he felt about it. At first he'd been relieved. Fewer people were fewer problems and fewer mouths to feed. But Brandon's words had been ringing in his ears since he'd said them. These were _his_ decisions to make now and he had a responsibility to consider people other than himself, whether he wanted to or not.

"I think you've got a good head on your shoulders, better than anyone else," Marvin began slowly. "But you're out of your league here, son. You're gonna lose your marbles fast if you don't start letting other people have a say now and again."

Ben's face dropped indignantly. "Jerome was convinced for weeks we could stay here all winter when he damn well knows better," he said, counting examples on his fingers as he listed them off. "Brandon still thinks it's a good idea to go galavanting around the city looking for his sister. Peggy is...well, she's Peggy. Nobody else _wants_ to have a say, as far as I know." Pinning his father with an irritated glare, Ben held his palms out expectantly. "Tell me, who exactly am I supposed to consult with matters of life and death?"

"I just think you're starting to forget how this all started. People looked to you because you took them in and you have experience taking charge...being the boss." Marvin's eyes fell to his boots and when he added, "They need a leader now. There _is_ a difference."

Ben shook his head. He'd swear Marvin had a sixth sense to sniff out his weaknesses and bring attention to them. "I'm doing the best I can," he said, his voice dangerously low as he tried to hang onto his rapidly dwindling patience.

"You know when you ask me for my opinion I'm not gonna blow smoke up your ass, I'm gonna give it to you straight," Marvin retorted, jabbing a finger at his son. "So don't get mad at me because you got what you asked for."

Although they were walking side by side, physically together on the same path, Ben felt like he and Marvin were worlds apart. When they first reached Red Fox Creek, they had been on the same page. Going there in the first place was Marvin's idea, in fact. But now...Ben was starting to get the sense it was him against everyone else, for their own good. Whether they trusted him or not was up to them, and the truth was it didn't matter all that much to him anymore. Just by _trying_ to do the 'right thing', he was simply going through the motions, attempting to be the leader his father thought he should be. If he was going to be really, truly, honest with himself, Ben had to admit he didn't really care about the missing trio, and no sooner than that thought passed through his mind in its own naked glory for the first time, a cold chill gripped his stomach. That wasn't a good thing. Maybe _he_ wasn't a good person. But Samantha had hardly been with the group for a month, Jake was often argumentative and uncooperative for the hell of it, and Carmen was one of the most unpleasant people he'd ever met. They just weren't worth wasting time and resources on, or risking the lives of the people he did care about. Brandon was right - it _would_ have been different for Ben if any of the three were his family.

"I have something I should've given you a long time ago," Marvin said quietly. Jarred out of his wandering, somber thoughts, Ben's head whipped up from where he'd been absently staring at the snowy path go by under his feet and found they had nearly reached their trailer. Marvin took a deep, shaky breath and pulled a crumpled paper from his coat. "There was just never a good time and I wasn't sure if you could handle it." Both men halted at their charred campfire remains. Ben's heart thumped steadily faster with each moment he was left to wonder could've been so terrible about that paper. Marvin said, "I'm sorry," and handed the note over with trembling fingers, then headed into the trailer.

Ben turned his attention to the paper. His breath caught in his throat as he unfolded it and recognized the smooth, elegant handwriting. "Kate," he said, somewhere between a whisper and a whine.

_Dear Ben,_

_I don't want there to be any confusion about why I took my own life, so I'm going to be blunt: if I can't survive independently, I don't want to survive at all. This may come as a shock to you but it has been on my mind for quite a while. As I write this, you are in Fairbanks. I'm not positive yet, but I think you only went to find medication for me. You have to know you'll never be able to keep me doped up, right? What's in Fairbanks will run out, then we'll be right back to square one. Are we going to spend the rest of this disaster desperately running from place to place, trying to find enough pills to keep me functioning? That isn't how I want either of us to live. You can't be chasing after me all the time and I don't want you to. I knew the day we left home my day would come and I rather it be now, on my own terms, rather than at the jaws of some walker in another month or two. _

_This is about __you_ _now. _

_Please don't grieve me for too long. Don't let me stop you from thriving and helping people like I know you can. I'm okay. I'm not angry, I'm not scared, and I'm in my right mind. For the first time in months, I know what lies ahead and I know where I'm going._

_I love you, I love you, I love you. Forever and always._

_Goodbye._

_\- Kate_

By the time Ben got to Kate's signature, his chest was aching from where he'd forgotten to inhale and his eyes stung from a swell of unshed tears. It just didn't make sense. He couldn't understand why his father had waited so long to give him his own wife's suicide note, why he'd waited until Ben had _just_ emerged from the dark shroud of grief to delivered a punch to the gut that reopened all of his barely healed wounds. Ben numbly plodded up the steps of the trailer, opening the door to find Marvin sitting in the dinette booth with his fingers interlocked atop the table.

"How dare you?" Ben slung the note at his father. The creased paper whipped through the air and bounced off Marvin's chest, leaving the older man slack-jawed. His eyes bugged behind his glasses as he spluttered and stammered apologetically, but Ben overtalked him, his volume rising towards a shout. "How _dare_ you hide that from me? Every hour of every day, I've been wondering _why_...and this whole time, you've had the answers in your goddamn pocket?"

"I was protecting you," Marvin explained. He swallowed thickly, but it didn't take the grit of regret out of his voice. "The day she died, after we found her, I found that on the counter. It tore me up, I knew you wouldn't be able to handle it. Can you honestly tell me I was wrong?"

Ben's head pounded, a brew of anger and shock fogging up his mind. He hardly registered his father's words and started pacing back and forth, gritting his teeth. "Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?" He slammed his hands on the table. It didn't phase him when Marvin flinched. "You were the one that wanted all these people here and now you're telling me I need to be their leader," he began. The floodgates were opening and everything that Ben had been holding back was about to come out, and he didn't care. "_You_ made them look to me for that, I never signed up for it. Then I busted my ass so hard to take care of them I forgot about my own wife's, she kills herself, and you keep her suicide note. Her last words, the last thing she ever wanted to tell me...you not only read it, you keep it for yourself." Ben shook his head in disgust and took a few steps back, leaving Marvin to blink in shock.

"I never meant to hang onto it this long," Marvin said, just above a whisper. "There just wasn't a good time. You've been struggling so much these past few weeks."

Ben laughed humorlessly. "You think?"

"I'm _sorry_," Marvin repeated. He whipped off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I just wanted to spare you more heartache."

There were a million things on the tip of Ben's tongue, many of them unrelated to Kate's letter itself, and all of them more hurtful than anything else. So instead of throwing fuel on the fire, Ben simply clamped his mouth shut and retreated into the sleeping quarters. He slammed the door with such force that the whole trailer shook.

* * *

As Rachel prepared for the scavenging run, she couldn't ignore Jerome watching her every move. He was kicked back in a chair at the dining table with his arms crossed over his chest, staring after her with a narrowed, withering glare. She tried her best to block him out, and instead focused on the supplies laid out on the counter - a pocket knife, a 9mm Beretta, and a type of 'shopping list' written up by Peggy, mostly including obvious things like food, medical supplies, hygiene products, and warm clothing.

"You might as well use my bag." Jerome reached underneath the table and pulled out a black backpack. Crusty patches of walker muck were still on the front from his last trip into Fairbanks with Ben. Rachel couldn't remember where her own bag went. She'd had no need for one considering she'd rarely done anything in the past two months but cook, clean, and sit around waiting for someone to get a cut. Jerome tossed a few wrappers and empty baggies from his backpack, then handed it off to Rachel. She flashed him a grateful smile and got nothing but the same brooding scowl in return.

Rachel sighed and leaned down to pat him on the cheek. "I'm sorry, honey," she said, running her thumb along the thick, rough hair along his jaw. "But with the way our group has downsized in the past couple weeks, I've got to get used to going out of my comfort zone."

Jerome shook his head and turned his attention to the window. He said, "I get what you're saying, and why you're doing this, but it scares me to death."

"Lauren said we're not gonna go very far into the city, just hit a few neighborhoods," Rachel said, silently pleading that'd do _something_ to settle his nerves.

Jerome lightly rolled his eyes. "Please just be careful and hurry back."

Before he or Rachel could say anything else, the door popped open and Emma entered. Her dark hair was separated into pigtails on either side of her head, partially concealed by an oversized beanie that had belonged to her father. The puffiness had yet to fade from her eyes, but at least it seemed she hadn't shed any new tears for a while. Rachel had never realized how much she'd underestimated Emma and Aaliyah's bond. For Emma's sake, she sort of wished there were more kids her age...but maybe less kids were better. They were the most vulnerable members of the group, after all.

There was a long, awkward pause as the three of them glanced back and forth at one another, each at a loss for what to say. Then, Jerome forced a smile and bent forward to pat Emma on the shoulder. "It'll be okay, my chérie," he crooned. "Maybe after I get back from fishing, we can find something fun to do."

"Sure," Emma said, her voice blank and unenthusiastic. As Rachel started packing her supplies into the bag, Emma frowned. Her eyes tracked her mother's every movement, strikingly similar to her father. "What are you doing?" she questioned.

"I'm gonna go with Lauren to look for more food and whatnot," Rachel said, careful to keep her tone light. Emma wasn't dumb, she knew the danger in Fairbanks, but Rachel was hoping that maybe if she didn't make a big deal of it, neither would her daughter. To her dismay, Emma's shoulders slumped.

There was a brief knock on the door, then Lauren walked inside. "You ready?" she asked. "Marvin says we're burning daylight."

"_Marvin_?" She repeated, her pitch rising an octave higher than normal. "Since when is he going with us?"

Lauren awkwardly cleared her throat. "Don't tell me you guys are still at odds…"

Rachel brusquely swept the rest of the items on the counter into her bag and zipped it up. "How would I know? We haven't spoken to each other in a month," she said. Ever since Kate's death, Marvin had seemingly written Rachel off as dead too. The two of them hadn't exchanged more than two or three word sentences, always out of absolute necessity, since the day she died. And in the past couple weeks especially, he avoided even _looking_ at her. At first this behavior had only made her guilt worse, but now Rachel just thought it was ridiculous. If Ben could forgive her, there was no reason for Marvin to still be that angry. She tucked the Beretta in the waist of her jeans and concealed the grip with her shirt.

"Ugh, God." Lauren groaned. "Why do I always get stuck on these trips with two people who can't stand each other?"

"Well," Jerome began, turning excitedly to Emma, "If Marvin isn't going fishing then there's an extra pole…"

"I'd rather stay here today," Emma said. She trudged over to their heap of belongings in the back corner and pulled out the stuffed pig she'd gotten at the pharmacy then plopped down at the table.

"Alright, let's go," Rachel said, pulling on her backpack. Her words were met with dirty looks from both her husband and daughter. She kissed each of them on the cheek, then headed for the door. "Love you guys," she called over her shoulder.

* * *

Shortly after the others had left for their run into Fairbanks, Jerome and Brandon set off in search of the stream. They were joined at the last minute by Courtney, whose blank, bored face had lit up at Brandon's invitation for her to come along. The thick gray cloud cover thinned as the morning went on, revealing a blue sky and bright rays of sunlight. Most of the snow had already melted except for a few patches here and there. Jerome eyed the remaining white clumps as the ATV whizzed past them and pensively chewed at the inside of his cheek. Freak warm days like this were rare once winter weather started. Back in the days when Red Fox Creek was still an operating gold mine, he and Ben would've been ready to do a happy jig. The longer freezing temps were kept at bay, the better for productivity, both then and now.

Even though he'd never been there himself, Jerome knew of the general area Marvin had circled on the map, so he found himself in the driver's seat for the first time since he first arrived in camp. He drove past the long-abandoned backhoe that normally marked the edge of their territory and continued for another couple of miles, only half listening to Brandon and Courtney's cheerful conversation. His mind was elsewhere, mostly on Rachel. Where she was that moment, what she was doing, whether or not she was safe.

The stream seemed to appear out of nowhere, the glistening, sun dappled water suddenly visible through the thick sea of trees. "Looks like we're here," Jerome said, stopping the ATV a few yards from the bank. The stream was twice as big as Red Fox Creek and the waters rushed twice as fast.

Jerome, Brandon, and Courtney climbed out of the vehicle and went around to the bed to retrieve their poles. The conversation had come to a stop as they walked over to the bank and cast their lines, each of them focused on doing what they could to catch something. But it wasn't long until staring at a piece of twine got boring, and Jerome's mind began to wander.

"I'm sorry about your sister," he said, looking to Brandon. "I know it must be hard."

Brandon nodded, gratitude softening the gloom in his dark eyes. "Thanks," he said. A long moment of silence stretched between them as they watched the thin twine dance against the murky water's current. "I thought she'd always be okay," he admitted, his eyebrows furrowing into a somber frown. "No one here got to _really_ know her. Maybe she wasn't the friendliest person in the world and she was always in and out of trouble back in the day, but she was there when I needed her." His lips pressed together into a thin line and his gaze didn't rise from the makeshift fishing pole he had in a white-knuckle grip. "I was nineteen when Adrian was born and he was hardly old enough to walk when his mother walked out on us. Carmen was the only one who stepped up to help."

Jerome found himself struggling to come up with a response. He didn't wish the girl any harm, but she had made one hell of a first impression on him and never did anything to amend it. Being at the mercy of a total stranger, the cold barrel of a gun shoved against his temple while his daughter watched in terror, wasn't something Jerome had forgotten. Carmen had gone out of her way to be cold and distant during her time with the group after that, too. She did the bare minimum to pitch in and nothing more. Any attempt to include her was met with scoffs, eye rolls, or rude comments. Was it _really_ any wonder why no one was jumping to risk life and limb to look for her? Jerome gave Brandon an apologetic, sidelong glance before he said, "I wish there was something we could do, but I think Benny's right. It's too dangerous to look for her." It wasn't a total lie; he _did_ wish they could find her, for Brandon's sake if nothing else.

Brandon's face fell back into a frown as he slowly guided his fishing pole up and down, sending the cloth 'lure' dancing through the water. "Feel free to ignore this question if it's too much, but me and some of the others have been wondering...where's _your_ family?" He bit his lip and hesitantly added, "Besides Rachel and Emma, of course. Everyone else either has relatives here or has mentioned them...except you."

Jerome's eyes widened at the revelation that people had been wondering about his family. Nobody had ever shown much interest in his background beyond Fort McAdams. "Well, both my parents died decades ago and I was an only child," he explained. "Any other relatives I might have are back in France."

"When did you come to America?" Courtney asked, leaning forward to look at Jerome curiously.

"My parents moved us to Chicago when I was thirteen," Jerome answered. He chuckled. "Believe it or not, I was kind of a city boy growing up, but I don't miss it." When the somewhat confused, but mostly intrigued expression on Courtney's face didn't lift, Jerome continued, "My Ma and I wanted a change of scenery after my father died. He was a lineman, one of those guys that works on power lines and whatnot. One of his colleagues screwed up and got him electrocuted." Jerome paused as Brandon's mouth dropped open, expecting some commentary, but none came. "The worker's comp money flooded in and off we went. Ma loved Anchorage," he said, a wistful smile pulling at his lips. "She only got to enjoy it for a few years before she got sick, and well…" Jerome trailed off with a shrug, allowing them to fill in the blanks.

"Damn, I'm sorry." Brandon shook his head. "That sounds rough as hell."

Jerome shrugged again. He had surprised himself with how easily and willingly he'd talked about his parents. More often than not, he liked to leave the past in the past. "I never expected to be all alone in the world at twenty one, that's for sure. But things got better. They always do." He looked meaningfully from Brandon to Courtney in turn. Courtney held his gaze for a moment, then dubiously shook her head. Jerome nudged Brandon with his elbow. "Well, where's the rest of _your_ family?"

"Oh, well, uh..." Brandon scrubbed a hand across his neck. He casually replied, "My parents are hardcore Catholics and weren't really cool with me dating other men, so they kinda kicked me out of the family a couple years ago." When his attempt at levity fell flat and Jerome and Courtney only stared at him in shock, Brandon's cheeks took on a rosy tint that had nothing to do with the cold. He dipped his head and quietly explained, "I don't really blame Adrian's mom for leaving me...what we had was a sham. It was a last ditch effort to make my parents happy. You can only live a lie for so long."

"What your parents did to you is terrible," Jerome said. "Truth is you're probably better off without people like that anyway."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Brandon agreed.

For the next fifteen minutes, the conversation took a lighter turn as the topic changed from long gone family members to what they hoped to enjoy again soon. Jerome kept his rather grim and all too real answer of "peace" to himself, and instead said he missed barbecues - it wasn't the farthest thing from the truth. There were a whole lot of things he'd have sacrificed right then and there to know he could go have a juicy, seared steak for lunch instead of whatever God-awful disaster Peggy was probably preparing as they spoke.

Courtney said, "To tell the truth, I miss mashed potatoes more than electricity," and Jerome couldn't believe how foreign his laugh sounded to his own ears. Really, he missed moments like _this_ more than anything else. Sharing a moment of joy with other people that wasn't related to the fact they were all simply still alive. It was precious, and rare. Even with the safety of Red Fox Creek, every day was still bleak and full of stress. But for now, the sun was warm, the talk was good, and Jerome was happy even if the fish weren't biting.

As the morning dragged on and it became apparent they weren't going to catch anything, Jerome stepped back and jammed his 'fishing pole' into the muddy bank. "This is about like watching paint dry," he grumbled.

"No kidding." Brandon pulled his line in and flicked the soggy strips of cloth that hung from the end. "I guess these fish are too smart for Marvin's trick."

"I'm sure there's something we can hunt around here," Courtney said, dropping her fishing pole in the grass. "Why don't we go look around?"

"You go ahead," Brandon said. "We'll finish up here. Just don't be gone long."

"Okay." Courtney nodded.

She walked over to the back of the ATV and pulled out the sleek, bolt action rifle that had belonged to her grandfather, then started off into a thickly wooded area. Her footfalls were light and methodical, and before long, Jerome could no longer see or hear her. His eyebrows inched up his forehead. "She really knows what she's doing, huh?"

"I think that kid was born in the woods with a gun in her hand," Brandon said. He plopped his line back in the water and unenthusiastically guided his pole back and forth. "Dean taught her well. That day I tried to go hunting with Marvin, I had no clue what I was doing. Pretty sure I was the reason we didn't get anything, actually."

Jerome snorted and walked leisurely down the bank, scuffin his boot along the smooth pebbles. "Not like I'm any better," he said. "I tagged along with my dad on a hunting trip when I was fourteen and it was probably about the same."

"No way you shot an innocent animal," Brandon said, snickering light-heartedly. Jerome only pursed his lips and glared at him over his shoulder in response. "Oh, damn!" Brandon exclaimed, laughing harder. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Hey," Jerome said defensively. "They put on Bambi like religious broadcasting when I was little then expect me to shoot a deer. It wasn't right."

"Jesus, dude." Brandon grinned and shook his head. "I would _not_ go around telling people that."

Jerome sheepishly shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. "I suppose I'll have to change soon," he said.

"Yeah, maybe Marvin can…" Brandon's words gradually faded away, then he hissed, "Oh, _shit_! Walkers!"


	12. Twelve: Homecoming

Jerome whirled around and counted five biters staggering towards them from various parts of the woods. "No...no, _no_," he whispered, as if his objection could make them disappear into thin air. He pressed his eyes shut and clenched his fists. They didn't have to worry about walkers at Red Fox Creek. He was probably one of the only people left in Alaska, maybe the country, who could say he hadn't seen a walker in months, but now that safety net was shattered. Snatched away in a single instant. And if they were out here, who was to say there weren't more lurking near camp, or God forbid, _in_ camp, where Emma and Adrian had only Peggy to protect them? Every decision they had made for weeks suddenly seemed unspeakably stupid. Nobody on guard duty, half the time none of them carried weapons anymore, leaving one adult in camp….

Jerome slowly started moving backwards. The sound of his own fast, shallow breathing was somehow deafening. He reluctantly pried his eyes open, half expecting to see all five walkers coming after him. Instead, Brandon's face was mere inches from his own, mouth moving rapidly. He could faintly hear Brandon calling his name, as though there was a wall between them. Then, Brandon's hand collided with Jerome's face in a mighty smack that made him stumble a few feet to the side. "Snap out of it," Brandon hollered. "I'm gonna need your help!"

"Okay." Jerome fumbled with the layers of clothing at his hip to locate his knife. The walkers had spread out some, but they were closing in. His attention zeroed onto the nearest one, just a few yards out - a young, dark-skinned woman with sunken cheeks and half her scalp missing. Her throaty moans somehow stood out from the rest, rendering Jerome unable to move. He raised his knife defensively, but it was as though his feet had grown rooted to the earth. Brandon charged forward and gave the walker a hearty shove, sending her flying to the ground. He grabbed a handful of her remaining hair and slammed her head against the hard-packed dirt, finishing the job with a stomp.

The deep _boom_ of a gunshot rang out and another walker fell to the forest floor in an unmoving heap. Courtney ran over, skirting around trees, her rifle held low. Her wide-eyes took in the remaining three walkers and she gulped, but came to a steady stop beside Jerome and raised her gun.

Another biter appeared beyond the others, swaying out from behind a large tree. "I've got it," Jerome said faintly. He trudged deeper into the woods and found himself slowing down as he neared the walker. Fortunately, this one was a good foot shorter than him, so Jerome grit his teeth, leapt forward, and drove his knife into the top of its head. He tried his best to ignore the disgustingly wet _squelch_ his knife made as he yanked it free and turned back towards the stream. Brandon seemed to be holding his own, grappling with a walker against the ATV. Courtney was staring down the sights of her rifle at another, but was apparently oblivious to the one lumbering up behind her. Jerome yelled, "Behind you!" but not soon enough. The walker reached for Courtney's back with both hands and was moving with such force that she was knocked to the ground. Courtney shrieked and the rifle flew from her hands. The gun skittered along the slick bank and dropped into the stream, instantly swept away by the fast-moving waters. Courtney rolled onto her back just in time to plant her foot against the biter's chest, its grabby hands clawing at either side of her leg.

Jerome darted forward, took the walker by the shoulders, and hurled it away from Courtney. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, waiting for a chance to strike, but none came. The walker recovered and got back to its feet almost immediately. Before Jerome could think of another way to take it down, Courtney let out a feral, enraged growl and tackled the walker around its waist, sending them both back to the ground. Her boots gouged into the slushy, snow covered turf as she moved to straddle the biter's hips, then reached over and yanked Jerome's fishing pole free from where he'd stuck it in the dirt. Jerome flinched at the ferocity of Courtney's stabs as she drove the stick into the biter's head, again and again, sending blood and brains flying. Nothing was left but a pile of brown mush when she rose to her feet, chest heaving.

Gurgling, desperate grunts grew ever louder behind Jerome. He turned and found one of two remaining walkers limping towards him, one foot dragging along at an unnatural angel. Jerome ducked beneath its outstretched arms and led the way backwards, clutching his knife so tightly he was surprised the wooden handle hadn't cracked. When the walker had followed him a satisfactory amount, Jerome leapt forward and pinned it against a nearby tree, pushing his blade into its temple.

Brandon groaned through grit teeth as he finally got the upper hand against his walker, then slammed its face into the side of the ATV. The walker's frantic noises ceased in an instant as it slid down the vehicle, a large, deep gash glistening on its forehead. "I think that's it," Brandon said, dragging the body away from the ATV.

Courtney fell to her knees beside the stream and slammed her blood-caked hands in the mud. Her voice wavered as she said, "My grandpa's gun…"

"I'm sorry," Brandon said. "And if these bastards hadn't shown up, I'd say we could go look, but we've got to go."

"I know," Courtney said quietly. "There could be more coming." She hung her head as she got back to her feet, casting one last sorrowful look at the stream.

The three of them piled into the ATV and were off in the blink of an eye. Nobody was too eager to stick around and see if more walkers did indeed turn up, least of all Jerome. He had a strange urge to run - he froze when he saw the biters, but now he _needed_ to get back to camp as fast as possible, even faster than the ATV could take him. Sweat prickled at his chest within the warm depths of his coat. Brandon drove at breakneck speed until they had reached the familiar territory of Red Fox Creek, then he began to slow, and eventually stopped once they reached the Wallace's trailer.

"You take it from here," Brandon said, stepping out of the ATV. "I'm gonna let Ben know what happened."

"Good idea." Jerome scooted over to the driver's seat and headed towards camp without further hesitation. He was halfway up the path when he realized Brandon would have to walk back to camp unarmed; he probably should've offered his knife. For all they knew, the woods could've been crawling with biters this whole time and their paths just hadn't crossed. There had been one at the scrapyard the day Kate died, why had they been so ignorant as to believe biters just avoided this little patch of earth when the rest was infested?

"Thank you," Courtney said.

Jerome hardly registered her words, and even once he had a few moments later, he still wasn't clear what she meant. He glanced over at her, brow quirked. "What?"

"You pulled a walker off me," she explained slowly, as though she was talking to a confused child. "Thank you."

"Yeah. Of course." He tried to smile, but one look at the side-view mirror told him it was more of a grimace.

Neither of them spoke again, and as soon as Jerome pulled into camp, he cut the engine. The clearing was empty and no one was on guard duty; he'd figured as much, but his heart still thumped a little faster. He jogged over to the dining trailer and threw the door open. Emma, Adrian, and Peggy were all inside. The kids sat on opposite sides of the table, the board game Candy Land between them. "Thank God," Jerome whispered. He crouched beside Emma's chair and enveloped his daughter in a crushing hug.

Emma's muffled voice questioned, "Papa?"

Jerome sank back but kept a hold on her shoulders. "Do not go anywhere without a grownup anymore, you understand?" He looked firmly into her big brown eyes and urged, "_Understand_? Not to use the bathroom, not to look around in the woods, not to play…"

"Christ, Jerome, scare the kid to death." Peggy scowled behind her book, but didn't look up. "What's going on?"

"There were biters in the woods," Jerome answered. Emma gasped and he gave her a reassuring squeeze.

Adrian asked, "Is my daddy okay?"

"Yes, bud." Jerome nodded to him. "He just wanted to let Ben know that the woods aren't safe anymore, he'll be here soon," he said, then turned his attention back to Emma. Nearly frantic, he begged, "_Please_. I know you're not gonna like it, but it's very dangerous for you to be out alone. If you see any biters, you run inside the closest trailer." When Emma only stared back at him, her mouth slightly open, he demanded, "Promise me."

She stammered, "P-papa, don't worry. I promise I'll run if I see any."

"And don't go anywhere alone," he repeated.

Emma nodded fervently. "I won't, I swear."

"Okay. Good." Jerome wasn't entirely convinced that she was grasping the severity of the situation, but he'd done what he could for the time being. "Continue your game," he encouraged, standing up.

Peggy's voice was uncharacteristically soft as she commented, "I thought they were slower in the snow."

"I don't think it's cold enough today," Jerome said. "A lot of the snow has melted and what's left is just slush." Normally, a warm front in November would've been celebrated. But now, even sunny days were a problem. Or at least they had better hope that was the case - if Lauren had been wrong about walkers slowing down in the snow, they could kiss the potential safety of winter goodbye. Jerome slowly walked over to join Peggy in the kitchenette. "Courtney's fine," he told her.

"I figured." Peggy shrugged and turned a page in her novel.

* * *

Marvin imagined the house had once been warm, full of love and joy. Nearly every tabletop was covered in smiling portraits of families, children, and even the occasional lolling-tongued dog. Each room was like its own museum, preserving a past beyond the outbreak. The television at the head of a neatly decorated living room was small, boxy, and had dials, reminding Marvin of the one his parents had when he was a kid. He paused as he started down the hallway and noticed that the walls on either side of him were lined with more photographs, these ones black and white. One was of a man in a military uniform, another from a wedding.

Somehow, all of it seemed _cold_. All those smiling faces had probably been turned into monsters. This family had been torn apart like all the rest, and even if they hadn't, they surely weren't together. Things like television, weddings, and professional family portraits felt like history now, things Marvin wouldn't get to enjoy for a long time, if ever again. He found himself staring at the smiling bride and was taken aback by how much she resembled his own late wife, Martha, on their wedding day. She had the same pointy shoes, mid-calf dress, and short, curled hair that was typical of the sixties.

The floor creaked as soft footsteps neared. Rachel reached the archway leading into the hall and stopped. She lingered there awkwardly, eyeing the photos. Marvin sighed and said, "Back when all this started...Ben lost his mother, but I lost my wife. I think he forgets I know exactly what he's going through." Despite the rather grim topic, Marvin smiled wistfully. He swept a finger across the picture's glass frame, leaving a streak in the dust. Thinking about Martha still hurt, but memories were all he had left of her, and he was grateful for each one. Rachel hadn't responded beyond a half-interested hum. Marvin took a deep breath and pressed his eyes closed, bracing himself for the inevitable. He was hoping once they were out together, their rocky history could be forgotten, but it didn't appear that would be the case. He'd tried to be upbeat and make conversation during the drive, but Rachel hadn't been very receptive.

"This is long overdue," he began, turning to fully face her, "but I want to tell you I'm sorry. I was out of line with how I treated you after Kate passed away."

"Water under the bridge." Rachel flashed him a tight-lipped, unconvincing smile and swept past him to the nearest door. She rested her hand on the knob, but didn't enter the room. She dipped her head. "You were right," she told him, barely above a whisper. "If I had just kept an eye on her like you asked me to, she would still be here."

"Rachel, _no_..." Marvin winced and wished he could kick himself. All of this time, that poor woman had been blaming herself for the death of her friend, because of him and his big mouth. Remorse deepened the lines in his aged face as he shook his head. "I'll admit I did blame you, but I was wrong," he said. "I should never have even asked you to watch her, it was the most selfish, stupid thing I've ever done."

Rachel chewed at her bottom lip. "Look, Marvin, it's a relief to know we can move forward without you hating my guts, but you're not gonna change my mind here," she said, pausing to give a resolute nod. "It's just something I have to live with."

"I guess that makes two of us," Marvin said softly. Rachel spared him a sympathetic glance, then pushed open the door. She didn't make it but one step into the room before she stopped in her tracks, mouth agape and eyes staring at something beyond what Marvin could see. He anxiously questioned, "What? What is it?" and didn't wait for an answer to raise his gun. His fingers gripped the forestock of his shotgun as he cautiously came to stand behind Rachel.

There was a single, gray haired walker laying on the bed. At first Marvin thought it was just a sleeping man, but then its sunken, cloudy eyes zeroed in on him and the growling started. An empty IV bag, still attached to the back of his hand, swayed on its stand as the walker began to slide over the side of the bed. Its legs dragged behind and didn't seem to be moving on their own accord at all. The walker paid no mind to the shrunken, long-decayed form of a dog curled up at the foot of the bed and started to pull itself towards Rachel, yellow fingernails clawing against the wood floor. Around the same time, Rachel and Marvin both groaned and clapped their hands over their noses as the foul stench of rot reached them.

"Oh my God," Rachel whispered, her mouth turned downward in a sad frown.

"What's going on?" Lauren asked, strolling down the hall to join them. She stood on her tiptoes to peer over Marvin's shoulder to see for herself. "Oh," she said, her tone low with surprise. She slipped past Marvin and Rachel and planted her knife in the back of the walker's skull. "What a shame," she commented, scanning the room with round, somber eyes. Rachel hurried over to the bed and removed the blanket, then draped it over the corpses of both the man and dog.

"You think someone just left him here?" Marvin asked. He grimaced at what a terrible, lonely death this man must've had. It appeared he'd just laid in that bed and wasted away all alone, except for the little dog on the floor. For whatever reason, the room gave Marvin the creeps unlike any other. Goosebumps sprang up along his arms that had nothing to do with the cold.

Lauren shook her head and crouched down to search the nightstand. "No, I really doubt anyone up and left this guy. I had just been coming to tell you, the pantry has got some good stuff."

"Thank goodness," Rachel said. "I was really starting to get worried about our food situation." She moved over to the IV stand and squinted at the bag. "Ciprofloxacin," she read. "Antibiotics, pretty strong ones. Too bad it's empty."

The foul smell only grew stronger as Marvin gingerly walked over to a tall, ornately painted cabinet. He pressed his face into the elbow of his coat - which honestly wasn't a whole lot better - and got to work rummaging through the cabinet with his free hand. Both drawers were completely empty, and the shelves contained nothing but a few towels and sheets. "Nothing in here," he said, his voice muffled. Rachel had moved onto the closet and shut the door with a disappointed sigh.

They continued through the house, checking every drawer and cabinet, and quickly discovered the only thing worth their time was the pantry. There was boxes of pasta, bags of rice, and enough canned goods to fill Lauren's bag, but it was still only a sliver of what they needed.

None of the neighboring houses had much to offer, either. Rachel managed to dig up a few pairs of gloves, but the street increasingly became more and more disappointing after that. If Marvin had to guess, he'd say whoever had been taking care of the old man had beat them to it. The pantries hardly had a crumb, the medicine cabinets were all bare except for cough syrup and cotton swabs, and there wasn't a bottle of water to be found. Garages seemed to be the only thing left worth looking at, although the thought hadn't occurred to Lauren or Rachel either one. Marvin practically had a complete toolset by the time they were heading back to the car. Wrenches, hammers, pliers, ratchets, even a partial mechanic tool set- they were all things that were better to have and not need rather than need and not have, so as far as Marvin was concerned, the trip was already a success.

Any hope he might've had of building up a good food stockpile, however, flew out the window when they reached the next street.

Overflowing trash bins sat at the end of almost every driveway. Many of the loose bags had been torn open, presumably by wild animals, leaving the street covered with papers, wrappers, and containers from a lifestyle long gone. Marvin walked over an empty potato chip bag and tried to ignore the nagging hunger burning in his gut that would've been satisfied _perfectly_ by a handful of Doritos.

He followed Lauren into the first house and hung back while she went after a walker in the living room. She leapt forward and jabbed her knife into the walker's forehead, the allowed it to drop half onto a white couch. "Yuck," she groaned, wiping her weapon off on the cushion.

"I guess that's a good sign," Rachel commented. "I doubt he's been eating the food." She squeezed past Marvin and headed for the kitchen.

Marvin figured this must've been the home of a young couple. Brightly painted walls, video game consoles, abstract art - all of it too modern for an old man like him. He went up the shiny wooden staircase, shotgun held low, and paused once he reached the second floor. There was a small, dim hallway with five doors, all closed except for one at the end of the passage that stood open, revealing a bathroom.

He entered the room slowly and shielded his eyes from the near blinding glint of sunlight. There was a small window above the toilet, with lacy curtains pulled back on either side. Two squirrels were chasing one another around and around the trunk of a huge oak tree in the backyard. The ground was covered in leaves and there were shriveled brown flowers in the garden and an empty stone bird bath. Nothing of note, and yet, something about it all was so overwhelmingly familiar that Marvin couldn't tear his eyes away.

Another house stood beyond the tall privacy fence and Marvin could only see the back porch, but it finally clicked as soon as his eyes landed on the decorative log that laid in an overgrown flower bed. The name **WALLACE** was carved into the wood in big letters.

It was Ben and Kate's house.

* * *

In the hours following his and Marvin's argument, Ben did _a lot_ of cleaning. Normally he would've been glad to do absolutely anything else, but he wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone. He certainly didn't want to go back to camp and risk running into his father, or worse, someone else with another complaint, so he spent the morning sorting laundry, scrubbing counters, and sweeping the floor until his own trailer was almost unrecognizable. It hadn't been this neat since Kate tidied up two months ago. As his wife popped into his head for what must've been the hundredth time, Ben gingerly pulled her letter from his pocket. He knew he shouldn't keep reading it, and he already could've quoted it word for word, but he just couldn't help himself. This time, however, he was interrupted by a series of rapid knocks on the door.

Ben quickly tucked the note away, grumbling to himself. _Please don't be Dad with another apology_, he thought. He opened the door to find Brandon on the steps and his eyes nearly doubled in size as he took in the muck splattered all over his torso. "What happened?" he demanded. "Is everyone okay?"

"Yeah, everyone's fine," Brandon said. He entered the trailer and slid into a seat at the kitchenette booth. "We were just about to head back from fishing when a bunch of walkers came out of nowhere," he explained.

"How many?"

"Six, I think," Brandon answered.

"Ah, damn," Ben said. He released an irritable huff of breath and shook his head. Walkers used to occasionally drift down from the main road, but never more than one at a time, and it'd been months since even _that_ happened. The fact that there were six out in the middle of nowhere together seemed like a rather drastic change. He took some solace in the fact that the stream was a few miles from camp, but that was still a little too close for his liking.

"Listen, dude," Brandon began, picking nervously at a thread on his coat, "I didn't want to do this but I've gotta tell you, Jerome's freaking me out."

Ben resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He _really_ didn't need this today, and almost didn't want to know. He dropped into the seat across from Brandon and said, "Alright, what did he do?"

There was a heavy silence between them as Brandon searched for the right words. He fiddled with the curtains hanging from the window beside him. "It's hard to explain," he said. "But all these walkers were coming at us and it was like he just shut down." Brandon's voice grew softer as he reluctantly added, "I had to slap him to bring him back, and even then something was still off."

Ben briefly closed his eyes. Just the other day, Jerome had been wandering around far from camp by himself. If those walkers had found him and he froze like that then, he would've been done for. It was the same thing he did at the pharmacy, and it couldn't continue. "Did he help kill the walkers?" Ben asked hopefully. Any sign that Jerome _could_ do what needed to be done would be enough for him at this point. They could work with that.

"Yeah, eventually," Brandon huffed. "Ben, I hate to say it but I think he's dangerous. If he reacts like that again when we're on the road…I might not always have time to smack some sense into him, you know?" Brandon sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor. "Man, I feel like an asshole."

"Don't," Ben said, raking a hand through his hair. "You're absolutely right."

Brandon tilted his head dubiously. His mouth opened and closed a couple times before he finally questioned, "Really?"

Ben nodded. "Yep. I'm gonna go talk to him." He thumped his hands on the table decisively and stood up.

"Whoa, what? Right now?" Brandon shot to his feet and followed Ben across the kitchenette. "What are you gonna do?"

"I won't mention your name if that's what you're worried about." Ben grabbed his coat off the counter and pulled it on. "I won't have to, I've already been getting onto him about this shit."

"Oh." Brandon's stiff posture relaxed some at that. "Maybe take it easy on him...he hasn't seemed all that stable lately."

Ben gave a flippant wave of his hand and headed out the door. He stormed down the steps and started towards camp with fast, determined strides. Enough was enough. Someone was going to wind up getting hurt if Jerome didn't get it together, and Ben refused to let that happen. They were _all_ going to have to step up when they left Red Fox Creek. Nobody could afford to be worrying about whether or not Jerome was gonna be able to perform the most simple act of survival. It wouldn't be long before Rachel and Brandon weren't the only ones to notice Jerome could potentially pose a threat, and Ben definitely didn't want to deal with that.

Although he had half a mind to ream Jerome on sight, Ben took a deep, steadying breath. It wasn't going to do anybody any good if he started out ready for a fight. The thick, withered bushes around camp brushed up against Ben's legs as he entered the clearing. Jerome was perched in the camping chair atop Peggy's trailer with a shotgun in one hand and a cigarette in the other. "I thought you quit smoking," Ben commented as he approached. Jerome simply shrugged and returned his attention to the treeline. "I heard you're willing to go to Anchorage now," Ben said happily. He figured he might as well start out slow and begin with his and Rachel's conversation from the previous day.

Jerome paused mid-inhale from his cigarette and pinned Ben with a suspicious, narrow-eyed scowl. "I guess you talked to Rachel," he said, his voice gruff with an underlying irritation.

Ben sighed and climbed up the ladder to join Jerome on the roof. He stood before him and crossed his arms over his chest, bracing against the chilly wind that ruffled his short, strawberry blonde hair. "So...was it just something you said, or are you really okay with leaving?"

Jerome didn't respond immediately. He took a long drag off his cigarette and chewed thoughtfully at his cheek. Then he blurted, "What if there's a cure?" Ben waited for him to crack a smile or laugh, show some sign that the question had been some stupid, misguided joke, but the brooding mask upon Jerome's face didn't budge. _Well, there it is_, Ben thought. _He's hopeless. _Nobody in their right mind could believe there was any chance for walkers to be healed. Not after everything they had seen. At a loss for words, Ben stared at Jerome expectantly, waiting for an explanation. Jerome scoffed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He questioned, "You don't know what started this, why do you think you know what could or couldn't end it?"

Ben nearly bit his tongue in half trying to keep his temper in check. Sometimes he wished he could just take the more ignorant members of his group by the shoulders and shake them. There were a hundred things he wanted to bellow at the top of his lungs, concepts he was desperate to pound into Jerome's head before this blind hope got him killed. But, knowing that wouldn't get him anywhere, Ben grit his teeth made an effort to keep his tone level. "A cure takes a lab, people, supplies, research...who do you think is left to do all that?" he asked, raising his brows quizzically. "We know Alaska got a late start to this mess, and I think it's safe to assume if the lower forty-eight were doing any better, we'd have heard something by now." Ben scoffed and added, "Besides, half the walkers are skin and bone, wandering around with their guts hanging out. There's no curing that."

"Not all of them are that far gone," Jerome retorted. "There has to be someone out there who's figured out something. How to prevent people from turning, how to stop it altogether, just _something_." He briefly pressed his eyes shut and fervently shook his head. "Y-you're all just abandoning civilization too fast. It's like you've given up, it's like you don't even care." He huffed and paraphrased Ben's earlier words with mock cheer. "Bashing skulls and fighting for every scrap you can get are just part of life now, right?"

Ben's eyes shot wide open. He blinked rapidly, struggling to come up with a response, and any he might've had fell away when he _really_ looked at Jerome for the first time. The dark circles and bags under his eyes, the vicious tremble of his hand that was making the cigarette dance in his fingers, the aggression that was so totally _not_ Jerome that Ben still didn't know how to deal with...he had a much bigger problem on his hands than he thought, and with that realization, his heart dropped. It seemed his best friend was about to fall apart under the pressures of the new world, and he hadn't even seen the half of it yet. They had no idea how Anchorage would turn out or what the winter held for them. Jerome was the only person in the group who could say his family was intact, and yet...

Anger blossomed inside Ben like a flaming flower in bloom, sending him over the calm edge that he'd been teetering on so precariously. What was Jerome's problem, anyway? That he was scared and worried for his family? That he didn't _want_ to deal with walkers and face what the world had become? Ben snorted and slowly ran a hand down his face. "You know what," he began, pinning Jerome in an icy glare, "I knew from the moment you got here that you weren't gonna make it. God how I hoped I was wrong, but you just keep on saying and doing shit that everyone besides you can see is gonna get your ass killed."

Jerome went slack-jawed but quickly recovered, pressing his lips together into a thin line. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and stuck his hands out expectantly. "What exactly do you want from me?" he demanded, his brown eyes blazing furiously.

"I want you to live," Ben snapped. "You say we have given up, but you're the one hanging onto a life that's gone. You're the one refusing to adapt."

All of the anger seemed to leave Jerome in an instant, like someone had flipped a switch. His shoulders sagged and he laid the shotgun across his lap, then buried his face in his hands. He was quiet for a long moment, making the afternoon birdsong seem especially loud, then he mumbled, "I'm sorry. I just...I just don't know if I can do it."

"You're gonna," Ben said matter-of-factly. The low rumbling of an approaching vehicle stole his chance to say anything else. Jerome dropped the shotgun onto the roof and clambered out the chair. He stared towards the road, his eyes wide and desperately hopeful that his wife had returned. Knowing their time to discuss the issue any further was rapidly dwindling, Ben came to his side and playfully punched him on the arm. He said, "You know, you're the brother I never had. Or wanted." At first, Jerome seemed too intent on the road to hear his words. Then, he gave a short chuckle and turned to Ben with a stunned, slightly amused expression. "We'll work on this," Ben continued. "I know it's hard, especially after being at that damn refugee center, but it just takes time." With that said, he crossed the roof and descended the ladder.

Lauren waved from the driver's seat as she drove the Buick into camp. Ben stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of someone else in the car - his father. "What the hell?" he said to no one in particular, throwing his hands up in the air. His sixty-seven-year-old father had not only gone into Fairbanks, but done so without his knowledge or permission, and had been gone for hours without Ben even noticing. That was just _great_. As soon as Lauren had parked the car in its usual place behind the bus, Ben stormed over and yanked the back door open. "Welcome back," he said, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm. "Have a nice trip, dad?"

"None of us are bit or anything, by the way," Lauren said, pursing her lips. "Thanks for asking."

"Why did you let him go?" Ben demanded, his exasperated gaze bouncing from her to Rachel. "You both know he's not to leave this camp and why."

"Hey, I'm not his keeper," Rachel said. She hopped out of the car and jogged across camp to greet her husband and daughter before Ben could say anything else.

Marvin rolled his eyes and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "You act like I've got one foot in the grave," he said. "I wanted to go and I wasn't gonna take no for an answer." He reached across the seat, grabbed a small blue book, and thrust it into Ben's hands. "Besides, I think it was worth it just for that."

Ben snorted dubiously - there was nothing worth him going into Fairbanks for, least of all a damn book. He flipped the cover open and the anger fell away as he was met with Kate's smiling face. He remembered the day the photograph was taken well. It was Kate's thirtieth birthday, and where the memory had become rather fuzzy and vague in his mind, the picture was clear. Kate wore a pink tiara and had an arm around one of her friends. Ben looked up, realizing then that tears were in his eyes.

"We came across your house," Marvin explained quietly.

"Thank you," he whispered.


	13. Thirteen: Golden Heart of Alaska

**A/N: After having a ton of people tell me that my huge 10K+ word chapters were difficult to read and almost everyone prefers shorter chapters, I've split almost all of the chapters in half. I'd like to apologize again to all of you who got a swarm of email notifications because of this, I both didn't think about it and didn't expect it, but it's all straightened out now. This is something I've been wanting to do for a while anyway, as having that 10K milestone hanging over my head has really burnt me out creatively, and I think I'll be able to put out more faster.**

**Anyway, onto the new chapter!**

* * *

Ben crouched down and swept the powdery layer of snow off his wife's headstone. He ran his fingers along the jagged letters that had been carved out to spell _Kate Wallace_. The upturned earth of her grave had settled in the months since her death, becoming no more than a flat patch of dirt blanketed in white, same as everything else. Someone who wasn't wise to the tragedy and heartache that had occurred in these woods wouldn't have known this was a grave at all if not for the boulder that served as her headstone. Without that, Kate was just another nameless victim of the world around them. Ben hung his head at the realization that he had no idea who was responsible for the headstone or its engraving. The day she died was such a blur, he didn't even know who to thank for assuring his wife was honored properly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For everything. I should have paid more attention. I should have remembered your condition and got the pills sooner. I should've put you first all along."

A fresh wave of grief clutched at Ben's throat. He'd never said these thoughts out loud and for the past week, he'd tried his best to ignore them altogether. "More than anything else, I'm sorry I wasn't here. You died alone and I'm just_..._" He trailed off and closed his eyes, wishing anything he was saying mattered. He knew it didn't. Kate couldn't hear him, and getting all of this off his chest was just one more selfish act. "I hate to think what you went through, coming back as one of those _things_." Ben's breath hitched and he irritably scrubbed the wetness away from his eyes. When she'd written her suicide note, Kate was actually _hopeful_. Ben could feel from her words that she thought she knew what she wanted, she thought she was going to find peace. Instead, she met the very same fate she'd been trying to save herself from.

"Since it's what you wanted, I'm gonna keep going." Ben gulped as soon as the words left his mouth. They were bitter on his tongue and even he could hear the exhaustion in his voice. He hoped no one could tell how skeptical he was that they were going to find anything worth finding in Anchorage. More supplies, maybe better places to hole up, sure. But as for 'traces of civilization' and 'stability' like the others were hoping for? He couldn't see it being much better than Fairbanks on that front. "This is goodbye," he continued, the words riding on a shaky sigh. "For a while I thought I'd see you soon, but not yet." He pressed his trembling lips to the frosty boulder and echoed the words that were engraved on her wedding band as well as repeated in her suicide note. "Forever and always," he whispered.

Ben stood and walked away without looking back.

Despite his best efforts to stamp down the emotions that were getting the best of him, a few tears ran down Ben's round, blotchy cheeks. He had half a mind to run back to the cemetery and curl up on Kate's grave, but he knew he'd never be able to pry himself away again, so he balled his fists and stormed onward along the path back to camp. He was so lost in his own head, memories of Kate flashing through his mind like lightning, that he strayed no more than a foot from the creek and was plunged back to reality when frigid water splashed up and hit his ankle.

Winter had come at last and Ben knew the familiar, bone-deep arctic chill in the air well enough to know that this time, it was there to stay. There was a long, hard, _cold_ road ahead. He had no idea how his group was going to fair for the next three or four months until spring, but one thing was certain, and that was that their time at Red Fox Creek had come to an end. At this point, the possibility of being snowed in and freezing or starving to death, whichever came first, scared him a lot more than the walkers he was sure to encounter once they headed out. Even one more day at Red Fox was too much of a gamble for Ben's liking. Fortunately, any scepticism the others might've had appeared to have vanished in a hurry, all thanks to the walkers Jerome, Courtney and Emma had encountered at the stream.

Now that the day was actually upon them, the thought of leaving for good was more exciting than daunting. Sure, there was uncertainty and danger, but Ben had never been one to fear the unknown. He saw their impending departure as a chance to start anew, turn over a new leaf, and hopefully put the horrors he connected to these woods behind him. Whether or not Anchorage was the answer to everyone's problems, he was confident that together, he and his group could make something out of it. Regardless of the ways they butted heads, one thing that they _all _wholly believed was that there was still a life worth living out there. For some, that meant finding another refugee center. For others, it meant finding a cure.

But Ben wasn't sure what a life worth living looked like anymore. And that, perhaps, was the most freeing part of all. He couldn't be crushed and disappointed if he didn't have any expectations.

By the time Ben reached camp, the cold wind whipping his face had aided in covering up any signs of mourning - or so he thought. Jerome stood at the back of the Buick, up to his elbows in the trunk as he arranged bags and tubs. He glanced up at Ben as he approached, then did a double take. "Are you okay?" he asked, frowning. "You look weird."

"You're one to talk," Ben retorted. "You and that damn caveman beard you've been growing..."

"And the list of people who have _not_ commented on my facial hair grows shorter," Jerome grumbled lightly. "Besides, I look much more like a lumberjack than a caveman."

Ben snorted dubiously and clapped him on the shoulder as he walked by. "Keep telling yourself that, buddy."

Almost everyone was occupied with some task related to packing up camp. More people were out and about than Ben had seen in weeks. Brandon leaned up against the bus, manning the doors as Courtney and Peggy came from their trailer with overflowing cardboard boxes in their arms. The picnic table was covered in various odds and ends that had turned up, including a single mitten, an empty handgun magazine, a small bundle of rope, and many books.

Marvin was seated on the bench, trying different batteries in a small camping lantern. "Hey," he greeted his son. "I got the last of our stuff packed up, Jerome's gonna take the ATV and haul it in soon." Ben nodded, trying to ignore the faint yet stabbing sense of loss he felt. Quite a few things near and dear to his heart were being left behind. There was a shoe box back in his trailer that held almost his whole life. His identification, social security card, birth certificate, his and Kate's marriage certificate...they were just pieces of paper now, and neither vehicle could spare the room to take sentimental keepsakes on the road. Things that were once absolutely vital had been replaced in importance by ammunition and batteries.

As rational and necessary as thinning their belongings was, it still stung. Ben swallowed around a lump of emotion in his throat, surprised by how much this was getting to him, and fished around in his coat pocket until his fingers found the small, familiar, circular hunk of silver. Kate's wedding band was one thing he could hang onto, and he had every intention of doing so. He sank onto the bench opposite of Marvin and fiddled with the ring, mindlessly slipping it onto the end of his finger - his digits were so much thicker than Kate's that it wouldn't go past the knuckle.

"You're awfully quiet," Marvin commented, glancing up from the lantern with worried eyes.

"Just thinking." Ben ran his thumb along the twinkling diamonds that lined the ring. "I'm glad we're leaving today, but it's strange to know I'm probably never gonna see Fairbanks again," he said, pressing his lips together solemnly. "You know, this is where I grew up, it's where Kate and I made a life together. At one time I would've said this was home. Now…" He paused, taking in the bustling camp around them. Just like the town he used to know like the back of his hand, Red Fox Creek was almost unrecognizable from what it had been before the outbreak. _Everything_ in Ben's life, everything he'd ever known, was different. "I guess if nothing else, a change of scenery will be good," he continued, offering a small, uncertain smile.

Marvin was quiet for a long moment, regarding Ben with a look of pensive curiosity. "You really don't believe things are gonna change, do you?" he asked quietly.

Ben gave an amused scoff and replied, "Only for the worse." It was no secret that he could be a rather pessimistic person, but Ben figured he was just being realistic at this point. If nobody had been able to get a handle on the whole 'people coming back from the dead only to eat other people' thing in over three months, he didn't see any reason to hold out for some big salvation. "And don't give me that look," Ben scolded, wagging a finger at his father's disappointed face. "I know you think the same way or you wouldn't have insisted we stay away from Fort McAdams and 'go off the grid' in the first place."

"Well, I'd keep that opinion to myself if I were you," Marvin said, nodding meaningfully towards the bus, where Brandon, Peggy, and Courtney stood chatting leisurely. "Don't forget, some people have pretty high hopes for Anchorage."

Ben muttered, "You're telling me."

Their conversation was cut short as Lauren exited her trailer and came striding over, her face set into a hard, determined frown. She came to stand beside Ben with her hands on her hips. "There you are," she said, sighing heavily. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something."

The clipped coldness of her words made Ben's heart skip a beat. He had a hunch he knew exactly what she wanted to talk about, and there was a reason he'd gone out of his way to not be alone with her since their last run - he didn't _want_ to talk. If she knew he'd been considering leaving her and Clarence behind, what was he supposed to do? There was no excuse and the last thing he needed to do was give anyone _another_ reason to be pissed at him. Nonetheless, Ben wouldn't put it past her to call him out in front of the whole group, so he nodded stiffly and motioned for her to lead the way.

* * *

Rachel was struck with a strange sense of excitement as she walked across camp, reminding her of the mornings before field trips when she was a kid. There seemed to be something in the air, where for a short while everybody had pushed their worries and fear to the back of their mind and instead were focusing on the fresh start ahead. At least that was how Rachel felt, anyway. The plastic tub in her arms, filled with her family's clothing, didn't seem so heavy anymore as she thought about finally getting out of Fairbanks.

"Got room in there for our wardrobe?" she asked, joining Jerome at the back of the Buick.

"Oy." Jerome rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes bouncing from the tub to the trunk. "We're about at capacity back here," he said. "I think that's gonna have to go on the bus."

Rachel sighed. The bus was going to be cramped as it was with so many people onboard, they could only spare so much room for supplies. She tried to keep in mind the whole journey, as daunting as it seemed, would only last six hours or so total. "Too bad we didn't have something just for storage, like a cargo trailer," she commented, shaking her head. "We have so little as it is, I don't want to leave things behind just because we don't have the space."

"I know." Jerome flashed her a tiny, sympathetic smile. "Nothing we can do about it, though."

Rachel noddled glumly in agreement. She set the tub down and lingered hesitantly by car, lightly kicking the toe of her boot against the tire. There was more than one thing she wanted to talk to him about before they went out into the unknown, but she definitely didn't want to argue again, and most of their conversations seemed to end that way lately. She forced her tone to be cheerful as she asked, "So, how are you doing?"

Jerome's shoulders slumped and he dipped his head. "I know I haven't been the best husband lately," he said, fingers curling tightly around the edge of the Buick's trunk. "I'm too irritable and spacey and...I dunno." At this admission, Rachel's brows shot up her forehead. She had no idea he was actually aware how unlike himself he'd been. Jerome swept a hand down his face and went on, "I'm sorry. I want you to know I'm...I'm really gonna try to do better." He lifted his earnest eyes to hold her gaze. "I don't want to let anyone down again, least of all you and Emma."

The remorseful, disheartened expression he wore pulled at Rachel's heart. She knew he'd been trying his best all along. It just wasn't enough. She remained silent for several long moments, debating whether or not she should speak her mind or just applaud his efforts and let it go. As her lack of reply seemed to become louder and clearer than anything she could've verbally expressed and Jerome's face fell, Rachel could see now wasn't the time to get into it. Even though she knew he'd finally, truly accepted that they had to leave Red Fox only because his delusion that it was safe had been shattered, he _was_ trying. She forced a smile and lovingly patted his cheek. "I'm sorry, honey, I guess I'm a little spacey too. My mind is just on my sister, you know."

Seemingly taken aback by the sudden shift in their conversation, Jerome tipped his head. "Oh," he said softly. "Yeah...I hope we can find her."

* * *

Ben trudged behind Lauren, following her past the half-circle of trailers until they were well within the thick woods. Birds sang their morning tunes in the bare trees above, all too cheerful for the dark sense of foreboding that seemed to creep a little further through Ben's chest with every passing silent moment.

When she was apparently satisfied with their distance from camp, Lauren abruptly stopped in front of a leafless, white-barked aspen tree and turned to Ben. "Alright," she said, heaving another sigh. "As much as I don't want to do this…I just have to say, last week when we were at that grocery store in Fairbanks...I saw you edging your way towards the bus," she told him bitterly, crossing her arms over her chest. "And I _know_ you were not thinking about me or Clarence. I could see it on your face." She shifted her eyes downward for a moment, then held his gaze, unblinking. Her voice was sharp and demanding as she asked, "You were gonna leave us behind, weren't you?"

"No," Ben answered immediately. He stared right back at her, wracking his brain for an appropriate response. Since the incident occurred, he'd just tried to not think about it. After watching his mother die a slow, walker-induced death, and all of the horrors in the world in general, Ben had gotten good at pushing unpleasant things out of his mind. Now, though, he wished he'd taken a little more time to dwell on what he'd done so he wouldn't be left floundering for something to say. "Lauren, I…" he trailed off, uneasily shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I wouldn't do that. You don't really think I would, do you?" He frowned at her, the sinking feeling in his gut only deepening when she hesitated.

"Oh, Ben," she began, her voice strangely kind, "Don't you think it's odd that everyone not linked to you in some way all agree you don't really give a shit?"

"_What_?" Shock swept through Ben like an icy, ferocious wave. "That's not true," he said, fervently shaking his head.

Lauren rolled her eyes. "Say what you want, I know what I saw," she said. "You were going to leave us for dead. You've practically done that already with three of our own, haven't you?"

"Holy shit, I am _so_ sick of this," Ben snapped. The shock was quickly being melted away by his rising temper. "They are _gone_. Dead or alive, we're moving on. I thought you were smart enough to know that's what we have to do, but if you want to write me off as some heartless bastard go ahead." He shrugged, his face twisting into a snide expression of indifference. With a callous laugh, he added, "Why not? Apparently everybody I know thinks I am."

"Except your dad and Jerome," she countered. "They think the sun shines out of your ass and you better be damn glad they do because if it wasn't for them, I wouldn't still be waiting around for these great leadership abilities I keep hearing so much about." Lauren matched his laugh with a sarcastic one of her own. "I mean, who gives a shit if you ran a mining crew here? Once we're on the road, you're not gonna have that card to play anymore."

"You wanna talk about my dad? Okay." Ben scoffed. "You wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for him. He and Kate were like kids going after stray puppies. They just had to pick up every straggler they saw and they had _no idea_ the responsibilities that came with it." The words came out in a furious tumble, and even as they slipped past his lips, Ben knew he was saying too much. But his defenses were down, chiseled away by one too many people criticizing him. To hell with what anyone else thought, he was finally going to voice the things that he'd been keeping to himself for months. "Newsflash, Lauren," he said, his voice rising to a shout. "I didn't want this job! I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"

"You don't say," Lauren said, pursing her lips.

Ben continued as if she hadn't spoken, motioning wildly with his hands. "People are disappearing and leaving left and right, every time I turn around somebody else is on my back about something I'm doing wrong, most of you just don't seem to get what we're facing..." He irritably ran his fingers through his hair and pinned Lauren with a withering glare. "Dammit, I'm doing the best I can and if that's not good enough, there's not a soul here that's gonna stop you from going out on your own."

"I get it, okay?" Lauren exhaled heavily, somewhere between a growl and a sigh. "We got dumped in your lap and somebody has to be the leader. But I think you really need to ask yourself, is that somebody _you_?"

The words hit Ben like a punch to the gut. He clenched his jaw against the blow. All this time, he'd thought Lauren was one of the few people on his side. Without so much as a glance in her direction, Ben swiftly turned and started back to camp, storming carelessly through the thick, snowy leaves and shoving aside low branches. Nothing he did ever seemed to be good enough. He'd pulled himself from the throes of grief to stand up for them and offer something besides following Clarence on his suicide mission to Juneau, and what did he get for it? Everyone, including his own father, thinking he was a terrible leader. And now, Lauren had the gall to pull him aside on the very morning they were set to leave camp - _his_ decision - and question his integrity.

As Ben returned to camp and walked past the half-circle of trailers, he found nearly everyone in the clearing had turned their attention to him. Peggy's mouth was turned downward in a scowl. She locked eyes with Ben for a moment, then shook her head and swept past Courtney and Brandon onto the bus. Marvin looked over his shoulder at him, his eyes wide. Jerome seemed a little _too_ occupied with packing things away now, not looking up from the Buick's trunk for even a second.

Warmth rushed up Ben's neck, pricking at his skin. If they'd heard the things he said to Lauren, things said defensively and in the heat of the moment, they must have totally lost what little faith in him they had left. _You just keep digging yourself a deeper and deeper hole_, he thought ruefully, and stalked over to the dining trailer with his head down.

He hesitated to go inside once he opened the door and found the trailer in even more disarray than usual. Every inch of the floor and table was covered in everything from clothes, blankets, board games and coloring books, to cooking utensils, pots and pans. The two warring sides of the trailer, functional and residential, had finally met in what appeared to be a terrible explosion. In the middle of it all, sitting cross-legged in the kitchen, was Rachel. Loose wisps of dark hair clung to her face as she dug through a cabinet, depositing a few cans of food in a half-full plastic tub at her side. She paused as she did so, finally noticing Ben's presence.

"Hey," she greeted, smiling politely.

Ben entered at last, stiffly closing the door behind him. He stepped around the various items covering the carpet as he made his way over to the kitchen and sank down beside the tub. It contained mostly canned beans and vegetables, and there were a few bags of rice and pasta. "Packing up the food, huh?" he asked lamely, examining a can of tuna fish with forced intrigue. She nodded and cut her eye at him curiously, obviously sensing there was more on his mind than food. Ben said, "Um...I've been meaning to talk to you about Anchorage."

"What about it?"

"I still don't have a clue where the hell to go." He paused to clear his throat. "You know the area better than any of us."

"Well, it depends on what you want to look for," Rachel said, pulling another three cans from the cabinet. "I grew up in the northern area and there are two military bases just a few miles apart, so who knows what we could find."

Ben forced his face to remain indifferent despite the alarm bells her words were sending off in his head. _Two_ military bases? The whole populous had probably flooded to northern Anchorage and they would have no choice but to drive through there to reach the rest of the city. Ideally, he'd find Anchorage in stable condition, with a refugee center that was well-stocked on food and welcomed newcomers with open arms, but somehow he didn't see that happening. "I hope they have held up better than Fairbanks," he commented. "But if they haven't, do you have any other ideas?"

Rachel shrugged. "It's a big city, Ben. We'll have a lot of options."

"Right." He traced the patterns of the wood on the table with a finger, anxiously chewing at the inside of his cheek. It was hard for him to formulate any sort of plan when he had no idea what his options _were_.

* * *

By mid-morning, everything worth taking out of Red Fox Creek had been packed away into a box, tub, or bag and crammed into the bus and car. The odds and ends had been cleared off the picnic table, and in their place laid an assortment of weapons. Ben was content to keep the same old pistol he'd always had, and his father was insistent on keeping his hunting rifle and knife, but it was time the rest of the group took their pick.

Everyone had slowly gathered around in the clearing before the trailers. Some - mostly Peggy and Jerome - seemed reluctant to choose. Ben said, "I know Clarence had you guys doing things a certain way. Maybe you agreed with him, maybe you didn't, but I have different ideas." He nodded approvingly as Jerome took the nine-millimeter pistol, the gun he was most familiar with. "We've got to look out for each other and we can't do that unless we're armed," Ben went on. "Now I'm begging you, don't make me regret this. No happy trigger-fingers. Only use the firearms when there are too many walkers to handle with your knife."

"You know this isn't our first time ever leaving camp, right?" Rachel asked, flashing him a good-natured smile.

"For some of you, it might as well be." Ben discreetly nodded to Peggy, who was still looking over the table as though it were a deeply complex puzzle. To his surprise, she chose a shotgun. His brows inched up his forehead as he asked, "Sure you can handle that, Peggy?"

Her blazing eyes glared daggers at him. "You know, at one time I probably could've outshot Annie Oakley."

"Well, your hands look like gnarled up old tree roots now," he replied. Bringing up her arthritis may have been a low blow, but they only ever let her have a gun during emergencies for a reason. As she gaped at him furiously, he suggested, "How about one of the handguns?"

"No thanks," Peggy snapped, then stomped off towards the bus.

"I'm guessing Clarence took that AR-15 we had?" Lauren asked, pursing her lips as she scanned the table for her favorite rifle.

"I think so," Jerome answered.

Lauren huffed dramatically. "Damn him."

Courtney approached the table next, and Ben tensed. He trusted her more with a gun than Peggy, but at the end of the day she was still just a kid. "Just stick to a knife for now, okay?" he said, and she mirrored her grandmother's death-glare perfectly in response.

As Brandon tucked away the revolver he'd chosen, he snorted and said, "The kid's seriously a better shot than any of us, Ben."

"I just don't think it's right," Ben replied. She'd only had a few shooting lessons with the pistols, and letting her tote around a rifle outside of hunting trips was absurd. He just wasn't comfortable handing a sixteen-year-old a firearm to use at her own discretion.

"It's fine," Courtney said, but the rippling muscle of her clenched jaw said she was about to crack a tooth keeping her real thoughts at bay. "I've already got a knife, so…" she shrugged and backed away.

"So," Lauren began, crossing her arms, "Who's going where?"

Ben shrugged. Given their earlier argument, the tension between them could've been cut with a knife, but she was still the only one he currently trusted to be his second in command. Biting back a frustrated sigh, he pulled one of the two remaining walkie talkies from his pocket and tossed it to Lauren. "You can keep that if you'll drive the car."

The look she cut him was a strange mix of surprise and irritation, and at first Ben thought she wasn't going to agree. Finally, after a few long moments had passed, she slowly nodded. "Okay."

* * *

For a while, the drive through Fairbanks almost felt like nothing more than a good old fashioned road trip. Old grunge music played softly on the stereo, courtesy of some discs Lauren had dug up from Jake's side of the trailer. Jerome drew shapes on the steamy window and Emma called out her guesses, and when their makeshift game of Pictionary got old, they moved on to I Spy. The two of them seemed to be off in their own little world in the backseat, rarely paying any mind to what was going beyond their temporary safe haven within the Buick.

Rachel wasn't as fortunate to be able to ignore what laid outside, but she was glad to see them laughing and smiling. It was good that Emma was oblivious to the many corpses wrapped in dirty, bloodstained sheets Rachel spotted piled up outside the middle school, and she was especially grateful her daughter hadn't noticed how the number of walkers dotting the sidewalks increased more and more the further they drove. For a place that had once been dubbed The Golden Heart of Alaska, Fairbanks was now a tarnished shell of what it had been.

Up ahead, the bus slowed to a stop, and Lauren was forced to follow suit. "Man, I hope nothing's wrong," she muttered.

The walkie talkie that had been resting silently on the dashboard since they left camp crackled to life and Ben's voice came through. "_Lauren, Lauren, pick up_."

"Yeah," Lauren replied, raising the radio to her mouth. She turned the volume knob on the stereo and silenced the music, then asked, "What's up?"

"_This is our last chance to add a bit more to our stockpile._ _What do you think?"_

"Hmm…" Lauren craned her head to the side to survey their surroundings. Single story buildings with panelled exteriors lined either side of the street - a laundromat, a cafe, and most notably, a small grocery store. A few walkers were wandering around nearby, but had yet to notice the vehicles. "I guess we should see what we can find," Lauren said hesitantly. "But I don't think we should stick around too long."

"_I'm with you on that," _Ben said. "_I don't want to stop again until we get to Anchorage, so if anyone has business to attend to, now is the time."_

"Alright, I'll meet you outside," Lauren said, shoving the radio into her pocket. She thrust the door open, mumbled something under her breath, and stomped towards the bus. Rachel watched her for a moment, briefly wondering what had the normally amiable young woman in such a snit, then turned to face the backseat.

Since she last checked on her family, Emma had unpacked one of her favorite books, _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_. Her eyes scanned quickly across the pages, so absorbed in reading that Rachel had to wonder if she'd even notice they had stopped. She chuckled. "Come on, Emma," she said, beckoning her daughter to follow with a wave of her hand.

Emma frowned. "I don't have to go."

"Oh, you always say that," Rachel said. "Let's go."

Emma grudgingly handed the book off to her father and joined Rachel at the curb, crossing her thin arms over her chest. Jerome slowly relaxed back against the seat, his fingers curling around the book in a white-knuckle grip. "Be careful, girls," he said, round eyes tracking Emma's every move.

"Of course. We'll be right back." Rachel eased the door shut before he could say anything else, flashing him a forced smile through the window.

Brandon stepped off the bus, leading Adrian by the hand. He spotted Rachel and grinned. "Pee check for you too, huh?"

"Some things never change," she said. He cheerfully shook his head, then he and Adrian walked around the corner of the nearest building.

A great sense of relief took some of the tension out of Rachel's rigid posture. She'd been trying all day to get a moment alone with her daughter, but as the case always was at Red Fox Creek, privacy had been hard to come by. She wasn't about to let her window of opportunity slip away again. "Follow me," she whispered, pulling Emma beside her as she hurried down the sidewalk.

Emma's bulky snow boots scuffed against the concrete as she struggled to keep up. "Mom?" she questioned, her voice high with concern. "Is something wrong?"

"Hush!" Rachel hissed. One of the nearest walkers alerted at their voices and departed from its loitering place in front of a travel agency a little farther down the street. Though just the sight of a walker made her uneasy, Rachel knew she couldn't spare the time to deal with it. "Down here," she said, ducking into an alley between two brick buildings. The crisp air was sour with the stale yet pungent odor of long-rotted food within the various garbage cans, but Rachel was just glad there weren't any walkers. "Okay," she began, taking Emma by the chin and forcing her to look into her eyes. "I know your father and I have said a lot of things since this all started. About us protecting you, and telling you that you don't need to worry about anything." She paused to swallow nervously. This would never have been an easy conversation, but it was even worse that she had to rush. "We were wrong," she told her. "I want you to forget all of it."

"_What_?" Emma's mouth fell open incredulously. "But you said - "

"I said forget it," Rachel repeated. "Whether any of us like it or not, this is not a world where kids just get to be kids," she said, her mind wandering back to all of the times Jerome had used her age in an argument. "Ten years old or not, there are threats everywhere. I've been thinking this over for a while. That's part of why I let you learn to shoot. But when your Papa came back to camp the other day, after all those walkers were in the woods…" she trailed off and shook her head.

Emma nodded seriously. "He told me to run if I ever saw any."

"Well, you might not always be able to," Rachel said. She reached into her pocket and produced a switchblade, thin but sharp and glinting in the sunlight.

Emma's wide eyes turned to the knife. "Whoa," she whispered. "Does Papa know about this?"

"This is between me and you," Rachel answered carefully. She didn't want to form some alliance against Jerome, but taking steps to make sure their daughter could defend herself was more important than the risk of hurt feelings. Her chance at survival was bigger than _everything_. "I want you to have a fighting chance, God forbid something happens," she said, offering the knife to Emma with an encouraging nod.

Just as Emma accepted the weapon, an agonized scream ripped through the silence. Two gunshots rang out, followed by more screaming. Several voices loudly spoke over one another, none of which were clear enough for Rachel to make out. She tore the gun from her hip, took Emma's hand into her own, and hurried out of the alley.

She nearly collided into Jerome as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. His eyes wide and panicked, but his shoulders slumped in relief at the sight of his wife and daughter. "What's going on?" Rachel asked, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

"I don't know." Jerome's brows were furrowed above worried eyes. "Let's go see," he said quietly, leading the way up the sidewalk.

Brandon was on his knees in front of the grocery store, both hands pinned to a blossoming red patch on his ribs. The still form of a walker laid a few feet behind him. Peggy, Courtney, Lauren and Ben all stood circled around Brandon, guns held low. A sobbing Adrian was being restrained by Marvin next to the bus as he tried desperately to reach his father.

"What happened?" Rachel questioned, rushing to Brandon's side.

"I got bit," he answered breathlessly. A knot formed in the pit of Rachel's stomach, cold and hard. There was nothing she could do for him.

Jerome gasped. He tightened his grip on Emma's shoulders. The color had drained from his skin, leaving his face pale. "N-no...how?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"It just came out of nowhere," Brandon said. He moved his hands for Rachel to see, revealing the jagged, gushing hole. Flesh and torn strips of his clothing hung loosely around the wound.

"Help me get him to the bus," Rachel said to no one in particular. "I've got to get this bleeding under control." _The best I can do is try to give him more time_, she thought darkly, casting a sorrowful glance towards Adrian. He wept hysterically despite Marvin's desperate attempts to calm him down, his small hands clutching at the older man's ratty denim jacket.

All of the undead on the street had been roused by the noise and were lumbering towards the living. Ben eyed the approaching walkers and raised his pistol a little higher. "Make it quick," he said. "We need to get out of here."

Jerome guided Emma over to Marvin and quietly told him, "Take the kids to the car, they don't need to see this."

"That includes you," Peggy said, shooting a stern look at her granddaughter. Courtney grit her teeth but didn't object, and as she reluctantly followed Marvin, Peggy rushed to Brandon. Together, she and Jerome managed to get him to his feet. Brandon winced and gasped with every movement, the hands clamped over his bite covered in slick, glistening blood that oozed through his fingers.

Rachel dashed ahead of them and leapt up the steps of the bus. Two out of the six seats and the floor around them were piled with crates, boxes, and bags. Rachel's scanning eyes quickly spotted the gray medical supply tub and she was down the aisle in three bounds. She grunted as she yanked the tub free, just as Jerome aided Brandon onto the bus. Peggy hung back as Jerome lowered Brandon down to lay on the seat nearest to Rachel.

The coppery smell that filled the bus took Rachel back to the days where she encountered similar wounds regularly in the emergency room, back when she was much more likely to see a gunshot victim than a bitten man. As a nurse, she knew how to put her emotions on the back burner. But this was _Brandon_. She'd never administered first aid to anyone she knew before, and there had only been a few times where she'd encountered a patient who was going to die no matter she did. She swallowed thickly around a growing lump of emotion. In the blink of an eye, another member of their group was as good as dead, and he was going to leave behind a five-year-old son.

"What do I do?" Jerome crouched in the aisle, his shaking hands hovering cluelessly above Brandon. He looked pleadingly to Rachel as she dug through her tub of supplies. "Tell me what to do."

"Dude, calm down," Brandon said weakly. His face was screwed up in agony. "I'm fine for now, it just hurts like hell."

Rachel tossed her husband a little orange bottle of pills. "Get out two of those for him, they're for the pain." She then pulled the last three cotton pads from their pack and pressed them against Brandon's wound as he gulped down the pills dry. Within seconds, the white fabric was red through and through. "These are all I have," she said, her brows furrowing.

"Jerome," Brandon said, gritting his teeth as Rachel applied more pressure to the bite. "No matter what happens to me, no matter when it happens...I want you and Rachel to watch after Adrian for me."

Jerome squeezed his eyes closed and hung his head. "Don't...don't talk like that," he said. "We've just gotta get you to Anchorage. Maybe somebody there can help, maybe…" he took in a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his shining eyes to Rachel. "Do you think we could get there in time to make a difference?"

The bus rocked as something slammed against it, making all three of them jump. Rachel could see that just below the window, Peggy had pinned a walker against the side of the bus with her shotgun across its chest. The walker's hands curled around Peggy's arms, and for a moment Rachel thought they were about to watch another member of the group bite the dust. Then, Ben appeared seemingly out of nowhere, pressed the barrel of his pistol against the walker's head, and dropped it with a single shot.

Softer gunshots followed from somewhere down the street. Rachel's heart thudded ever faster in her chest, the realization that her daughter was out in the middle of it all without either of her parents rendering her unable to think of anything else. Jerome, seemingly having the same thought, shot to his feet and was just about to head off the bus when Ben came barreling inside and blocked his path.

"We need to go," Ben said, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. He nodded to Brandon. "Is he good to travel, Rachel?"

Before she could answer, Brandon demanded, "Will you?" He groaned in pain as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows and peer over the seat. His glassy eyes bounced from Rachel to Jerome. "W-will you protect Adrian like he's your own?"

"Yes," Jerome answered firmly. He grit his teeth, as if the word had caused him physical pain, and pushed past Ben to hurry off the bus.

"Of course," Rachel said, taking his hand into her own. "I promise, we'll take care of him."

* * *

**A/N: So, what do y'all think?**


	14. Fourteen: Tyranny

"No, no…" Ben slowly eased off the gas. The entire road ahead, as far as he could see, was one long traffic jam of abandoned, snow covered vehicles. There were other roads out of Fairbanks, but this was the main highway. It would stand to reason that if the main road had gotten jammed up during the city's chaotic downfall, then the alternate ways out were probably blocked too. Ben deflated against the high back of his seat as though the air had been let out of him. They were _so_ close. He sighed, "Son of a bitch."

Marvin ran his fingers through his gray, thinning hair. "Well, don't give up yet," he said. "Why don't we see how far this goes?"

"A long damn way, dad." Ben threw his arm outwards to indicate the exit. "There's no end in sight from where I'm sitting."

Peggy stood from her seat and stomped up the aisle, wanting to see the source of the holdup for herself. "Yeah, that's not good," she commented, bending over to peer through the windshield. Echoing Ben's thoughts, she asked, "What if all the other roads out are the same?"

"We could be trapped here," Rachel said. Her eyes rounded with the stark realization of her own words. Everything that might've been in Anchorage was just one more baseless, desperate dream if they couldn't even get out of Fairbanks. All of the preparation, Brandon getting bit...it could all have been for nothing.

Marvin huffed irritably, glaring at the three of them in turn. "Would you all get a grip? The rest of this city is a disaster, did you think we were gonna drive all the way to Anchorage on clear roads?" He paused, pushing his glasses back up his nose with a swift poke of his finger. "It's _one_ traffic jam. We can deal with this."

His father's scolding tone sent a wave of shame through Ben, reminding him all too much of when he was a teenager. Some of the pressure gradually lifted from his chest. "You're right," he said quietly. They were all in a near panic over some cars. The day, though not even half over, had been long and traumatic and clearly was messing with their heads.

"Let's go see how far this goes," Marvin repeated. He stood and clapped Ben on the shoulder. "One step at a time."

All heads turned towards the back of the bus as Brandon let out a wet, hacking cough. Rachel leapt into action and gently guided him into a sitting position, dabbing a cloth to his mouth with her free hand. When she stepped back, the cloth was speckled with fresh blood. Brandon groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. His voice hoarse and weak, he said, "If...if we're gonna be stopped for a minute, can someone get Adrian up here?"

"I'll get him," Ben said.

* * *

Adrian walked alongside Ben in silence. His wide, brown eyes darted from side to side, searching for more monsters like the one that sprang out of nowhere and attacked his father. As they neared the bus, Adrian wrung his hands together and glanced at Ben. "Is...is what happened to Dean what's happening to Daddy?"

Ben's mouth fell open and he halted. Dean had passed away just a couple days after Adrian and his family joined the group. He would never have thought the kid even remembered him. He found that his mouth had suddenly gone dry as he tried to come up with an answer. "Well, uh...you just talk to him about that." He forced a smile and guided Adrian by the shoulders up the steps.

Adrian watched him hurry away, back to where Marvin stood waiting on the sidewalk, then turned his attention to the cluttered aisle of the bus. Peggy sat on one side, scribbling with a pen into a bright book. On the other side, his father's legs were splayed out beyond the seat, half concealed by a quilt. Light brown and red splotches covered the elaborately patterned material.

"Daddy?" Adrian called in a small voice, hesitantly starting forward.

"Come here, buddy," Brandon said, extending a shaky hand to his son once he was close enough. "How are you doing, little dude?" When Adrian only stared back at him in response, Brandon sighed and briefly closed his eyes. "What happened must've really scared you, huh?"

He nodded. "A monster got you. And made you sick."

"Yeah. Yeah, it did." Brandon pulled him a little closer. "And there are no doctors to make me better." He coughed a few times into his elbow, then softly asked, "Do you know what that means?"

Adrian frowned and took several long moments to answer. "You're gonna go away? Like Dean did?"

Tears sprang to Brandon's eyes. He tried to blink them away, to no avail. This was so much harder than he ever imagined. "Yes," he finally choked out. He pulled Adrian into a one-armed hug against his chest, cautiously protecting his wound with his free hand. The boy's shoulders began to hitch as he sobbed. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"Daddy, I don't want you to go." Adrian whimpered pitifully and clung to his father.

"I d-don't want to go either." Brandon coughed again, and it took everything he had to not cry out when Adrian's elbow grazed his side. "But there's nothing anyone can do to help me, so you have to be strong, okay? And smart. Smarter than me." He gently pried Adrian from his chest so their tear-filled gazes could meet. "Rachel and Jerome are going to take care of you. They'll protect you, my sweet boy."

Adrian only cried harder and buried his face back against Brandon.

* * *

The bus halted at a four-way-stop across from a road cluttered with vehicles and Lauren was forced to hit the brakes. "Not again," she groaned. Before Ben had the chance to radio her this time, she snatched the walkie off the dash and said, "Do you see a way around this one?"

"_Not from here. Why don't you go see how bad it is? Most of these cars probably have the keys. I didn't want to waste the time but we can drive 'em off the road if we really have to. We can't keep turning around."_

"I'll take a look," Lauren said. She clipped the radio on her belt and cut the engine.

"I'll come too," Jerome said. When Lauren paused, one eyebrow raised quizzically, he explained, "A buddy system seems right."

She shrugged. "Okay. You check out how far the block goes and I'll keep an eye out for walkers."

Every bit of levity that had been with them on the first leg of their travels had vanished when Brandon got bit. Hardly a word had been uttered within the quiet confines of the Buick since. Jerome still had trouble wrapping his mind around how much things had changed in all of ten minutes. It wasn't fair how good people could be struck with a death sentence seemingly at random. It wasn't right that Adrian, an innocent five-year-old, was going to lose his father and be put in the care of people he hardly knew.

If Jerome hated this world before, he _loathed_ it now. Brandon was dying. Adrian was going to be orphaned. And there was absolutely nothing Jerome could do about any of it.

The acid in his near-empty stomach frothed at the thought, and he knew he couldn't afford to dwell on the situation any longer. He shook his head, physically willing his brain to change tracks, and turned to face the backseat where Emma and Courtney were peering curiously out of their frosty windows. "Don't move from this car for anything, okay? You're safe in here, but you might not be out there," Jerome said, his anxious gaze lingering on his daughter. Leaving her for even five minutes wasn't something he wanted to do, but Jerome felt like he was between a rock and a hard place. He knew he had to start "stepping up" as Ben had put it...but at the expense of Emma's safety?

Just as he was beginning to lose his nerve, Jerome spotted Lauren a few yards from the car, standing in the middle of the intersection with her hands on her hips and an impatient scowl on her face. She stared right back at him and raised her hands expectantly, as though silently asking, "_what the hell are you doing_?"

"Dammit," Jerome muttered under his breath. There was no going back now, especially not after he _volunteered_ to back Lauren up in the first place; he'd look like a fool. "I'll be right back," he said, sparing Emma one last glance over his shoulder as he left the warm, comfortable safety of the car and stepped out onto the icy street. The frigid air seeped deep into his bones, making him scrunch down a little more in his jacket.

"It's about time," Lauren commented huffily. He gave a meek, apologetic smile and then the two of them started towards the exit road in silence. Lauren kept a little ahead of him, her knife raised defensively. Her alert eyes swept across their surroundings, scanning the nearby shops and for biters. Jerome's heart sank as they passed the wide, green sign with white lettering that read, "ANCHORAGE 250" and the traffic jam came into full view. A dozen cars were packed together tightly, facing every which way, their bumpers crumpled and doors dented. The block went on for several yards and then thinned out to the occasional abandoned car left sparsely along the highway.

Jerome ran a hand down his face, eyeing the road with a rising sense of gloom. They could either spend the next hour or more trying to clear the road, or double back and try to find another way out of Fairbanks. Either option would eat up time and fuel they didn't have to spare.

Lauren let out a low growl of frustration and walked over to the leftmost road of the intersection, using her hand to block the sun from her squinted eyes. "It's the same here," she called, beckoning Jerome to join her with a wave of her hand. "Come look."

He jogged over to join her. Most of the street was clear until a few hundred yards down, where another jam plugged it up. All of the roads heading north were similarly blocked, but all of the side streets leading to the main road didn't have so much as a parked car. Something about it seemed weird...unusual..._deliberate_.

"Shit," Jerome breathed, shaking his head. These 'traffic jams' were too perfect, neatly blocking all of the northbound roads in tight clusters. "I don't like this," he said, and no sooner than the words left his mouth, a black pickup turned off one of the sidestreets and sped towards them. Jerome and Lauren whirled around at the sound of another rumbling vehicle and found a tan armored truck thundering down the opposite side of the intersection. Jerome took two steps back before the horrible realization that they were already trapped sank in. His wide eyes moved to the Buick, where Emma was looking back at him through the window. "_Get down_," he mouthed, motioning subtly with his hand. Her innocent gaze continued to stare until Courtney took her by the shoulder, then the two of them disappeared from his sight somewhere on the floor.

Lauren slipped her hands into the large pockets of her oversized coat and turned to Jerome with a face of indifference. "Play it cool," she said. Ben's crackly voice came through the walkie, but she made no move to respond.

"_You guys talk to them and see what's up_," he said. "_We're laying low to back you up just in case_."

_Just in case_? Jerome's breaths began to come in shallow, rapid puffs that made little clouds of steam before his mouth.

The pickup truck screeched to a halt at the stop sign and the doors flew open. Two men in camouflage uniforms hopped out with their rifles raised. "Hands up," the driver ordered. He was a short and plump man, with beady eyes that bounced back and forth between Jerome and Lauren. Jerome, not needing to be told twice, quickly raised his hands above his head.

"There's no need for this," Lauren said calmly, never moving. "We're just trying to find a way out of town."

"Hands up," said a second, younger man. He walked around the front of the truck to join his colleague, the gun in his thin hands swaying rather carelessly as he walked. A swathe of black, shaggy hair was plastered to his tan forehead.

"It wouldn't be wise of me to just lay down and be totally at your mercy, now would it?" Lauren gave a strained smile. "It's just the two of us and we don't have many supplies."

"Lauren," Jerome hissed, cutting his eye at her as though she'd lost her mind.

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "So, why don't you just point us to the nearest, clearest road and we can all go our separate ways in peace?"

"This is the last time I'm going to tell you," the first man warned. He directed the barrel of his rifle towards Lauren and spat, "Get your goddamn hands where I can see them, _now_!"

Lauren tilted her head, seemingly mulling over his request. The tension mounted as the strangers shared an irritated, impatient glance and the heavier of the two took a menacing step forward. After a few long, nerve-wracking moments had passed, Lauren finally shrugged and said, "Okay."

As she withdrew her hands from her pockets, one was wrapped around a small revolver. She aimed for the man that had done most of the talking and rapidly squeezed the trigger. Three shots boomed out, dinging against the truck's black exterior and nipping a chunk out of the concrete just before the tire. The men hollered in surprise and quickly retreated around to the back side of their truck for cover, bearing down on their rifles as they went and sending a hurricane of gunfire Lauren and Jerome's way.

Bullets whizzed past Jerome's ringing ears as he ducked and wrapped his arms around his head protectively, knowing all the while he was a split-second away from being filled with holes. His heart pounded impossibly fast in his chest. Terror coursed through his veins like liquid fire. Heat singed his neck as one shot came a little too close, and then he finally had the presence of mind to fight back. He snatched the pistol from his waistband and tried to find their attackers in the sights, but the shaking of his hands wouldn't allow it. He aimed for their general direction and pulled the trigger whenever they poked their heads up, his bullets occasionally skimming the roof of the truck.

Lauren was aiming and firing more accurately now that she had both hands on the revolver, and she delivered only two shots before the beady-eyed man yelped and collapsed, disappearing from view behind the truck. Hardly a second had passed before another shot rang out and Lauren dropped to the asphalt. A red spot bloomed across her denim-clad thigh. "Son of a bitch!" she wailed, cradling her leg.

There was a lull in the shootout as biters, lured in by the commotion, began to approach from all sides. Nearly a dozen were staggering out from all of the recesses Jerome hadn't given a second thought to when he got out the car. The strangers briefly turned their attention to the undead behind them. As much much as Jerome longed to run to his family, he knew he couldn't. He'd be leading these men right to them, and probably the walkers too.

He momentarily pressed his eyes closed, bracing himself, then slipped his hands underneath Lauren's shoulders and hoisted her up. "We've gotta run," he whispered. "Just hang onto me." She leaned heavily on Jerome, struggling to put any weight on her injured leg, then nodded meaningfully.

They charged up the street, feet pounding against the slick, snowy asphalt. One of the men called, "Where do you think you're going?" and the rapid _pop-pop-pops_ of their rifles were once again directed at Jerome and Lauren.

* * *

Ben had no idea how bad things were about to get until the shootout had already begun. He clambered out of his hiding spot between two of the bus seats and flew to the window, feeling as though he himself had taken a buckshot to the heart when he saw Jerome and Lauren standing out in the open. They were up against two guys in fatigues - probably military - who not only had a truck to hide behind, but rifles as well. Twenty or more rounds apiece versus the twelve Lauren and Jerome had between them...it wasn't hard to see who was more likely to be triumphant in this battle.

"No," Ben whispered hoarsely. He refused to watch them be gunned down. He smacked the button behind the steering wheel to open the doors.

Marvin gasped and yelled, "Don't go out there!"

Ignoring his father's protests, Ben raised his pistol and ran down the steps. As soon as his feet hit the ground, an arm wrapped around his throat. A gruff, unknown voice growled, "Drop it." All of the air left Ben at once. His shoulders sagged as the gun slipped from his limp fingers and clattered onto the asphalt. Ben's eyes briefly fluttered closed. This was really it. He'd failed. The man released Ben's throat only to press the barrel of a gun into the small of his back. "Back on the bus," he ordered.

Ben had just begun to turn around when he heard Lauren cry out, and dread crept up his neck like suffocating tendrils. If she or Jerome got seriously hurt or worse out of this...he'd never be able to forgive himself. Not after the way he'd treated them, and not after he led them into this trap in the first place. His breath hitched as he marched up the steps back onto the bus and came to stand beside the driver's seat. The rest of the group was still hunched down on the floor and gawked at Ben and his captor with varying expressions of shock and horror.

The man said, "Please get in your seats and put your weapons on the floor." Everyone complied with his rules, slowly rising to their feet and tossing down their weapons, shooting him dirty looks every step of the way.

Tears fell in relentless streams down Rachel's face as she stiffly sank into her seat. "M-my daughter," she stammered, bottom lip quivering. "She's only t-ten years old and in the car behind us. P-please, don't hurt her."

"And my granddaughter," Peggy added. Her narrowed eyes looked the tall, nameless man up and down.

He didn't respond for several long moments, and then he finally said, "Everything will be okay."

Outside, the gunfire ceased. Ben's breath caught in his throat as he looked over just in time to see Jerome and Lauren running up the road, quickly disappearing from view. Their attackers piled into their truck and sped after them. Ben swallowed dryly, unable to moisten his mouth. Everything in him was screaming to get out there and help them. But with the barrel of a gun still pressing into the small of his back, and walkers slowly drifting into the intersection, he'd never felt more defeated in his life. Once again, he'd ignored the signs that something was wrong, and people he cared about were going to pay for his mistakes. He dipped his head and fought against the stinging sensation in his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Get in there," grumbled another unfamiliar, masculine voice from somewhere just beyond the doors. Courtney and Emma filed onto the bus, followed by a man wearing a heavy coat and bloodstained camouflage pants. He shoved Emma as she started down the aisle and said, "Little shit really put up a fight."

Rachel gladly pulled her daughter into the seat beside her and held her tightly. "Who are you?" she demanded, glaring back and forth from one stranger to the other. "What do you want?"

"I'm Lieutenant John Arnold." The man eased his pressure on the gun and guided Ben towards the seats, then motioned to the shorter man at his side. "This is Sergeant Charles Hill."

Hill mimicked the Lieutenant's stiff motion, swinging his arm towards the window. "The two dipshits that hopped out of their truck like their asses were on fire are civilian trainees," he explained lightly.

As Ben sat down beside his father, he couldn't stop himself from glaring daggers at the men. He wasn't going to fall for their 'nice and professional' routine. Their supposed ranks meant nothing to him. "So, what?" he questioned, scoffing. "You're military?"

"National Guard," Lieutenant Arnold corrected.

Rachel shook her head. "That can't be," she said firmly. "I was at Fort McAdams, I watched the place go down."

"Really?" Hill's mouth momentarily hung agape. "You get it, then. We're on the same side."

Ben grit his teeth. The audacity of these guys, to think they had any chance of connecting with their hostages. He sneered, "I doubt her husband thinks you're on his side. You know, the guy your 'dipshit trainees' are trying to kill." As if on cue, the pickup truck zoomed back into the intersection. The tires screeched against the road and left black streaks as they slammed on the brakes, pulled a u-turn, and sped out of sight.

"Oh, perfect," Hill griped, slapping a hand to his forehead. "Screw 'em, then. Let's go."

"We're not going anywhere without you," Ben snapped.

Hill patted the gun at his hip and smirked. "The guy with the gun makes that decision, pal."

"It's not how you think," Arnold said. At last, he tucked his pistol away and slipped into the driver's seat. "It usually doesn't go down this way. In fact, this is the first time it has...it's also the first time Mayer and Koneak have been on sentry duty." Arnold peered out the window at the black streaks in the road and shook his head. "We're building the National Guard back up, into something to help the people. Something like government, since there's none of that left."

Marvin chuckled. "Ambushing people and taking them against their will for their own cause...sounds about right for the government."

"Give it a rest, Grandpa." Hill rolled his eyes. He sat in the seat nearest to the door and looked to the Lieutenant. "What about their car and our truck?"

"We'll send someone for them later once these damn biters have settled down." Arnold started the engine and drove forward. Ben couldn't drag his gaze away from the left side of the intersection. He kept hoping he'd see Jerome and Lauren, get some sign they were at least alive. His heart sank as the bus turned right, and any chance of knowing was no longer in view.

* * *

Fear drove Jerome forward with a speed he never knew he possessed. He turned onto the nearest sidestreet and tripped over the curb, sending both himself and Lauren to the sidewalk in a tangle of limbs. "Damn," Lauren moaned. She wheezed through grit teeth and clamped one hand onto her thigh. Just as quickly as it started, the gunfire had stopped, and the rumbling of an approaching vehicle filled the silence of an otherwise silent, abandoned city.

"Hurry, we've got to hide," Jerome said, helping her to her feet.

Lauren clutched his shoulder in a death-grip and pointed a bloody, trembling finger across the street. "There," she said, indicating an auto shop.

One out of the two grimy garage doors stood partially open, leaving a two foot gap. Jerome nodded to her and then they set off, Lauren hobbling as quickly as her injured leg would allow. Jerome helped her slip under the door and then followed, scrambling across the cement floor.

Tool chests, loose tires, and car jacks sat throughout. Two long-forgotten cars sat on either side of the garage. Jerome and Lauren hurried to the sales counter at the back and slid down behind it. Their breaths came in ragged puffs, somehow seeming louder than the gunfire ever had been in the enclosed, silent space.

The truck's rumbling grew louder, then stopped. Two doors thumped shut. Footsteps trudged along the sidewalk. Muffled voices grew nearer until words were audible. One said, "They're here somewhere."

"We should spread out and look for them," said the second.

"Wait."

Jerome edged his way to the end of the counter and peeked around the corner. Two sets of boots stood just outside the garage door.

"We'll let the walkers take care of them," the first voice said. Just as quickly as they appeared, the men turned on their heels and ran back to the truck. The engine rumbled to life then faded as they drove away.

Guttural groans echoed outside. Five or six pairs of feet scuffed along the concrete. Jerome thought his heart was going to stop altogether, and his mind was completely consumed by thoughts of the approaching biters until Lauren whispered, "Get the door!"

Jerome crept out of hiding and hurried over to the door. He slowly pulled downward, cringing at every creak and whine of the hinges. He allowed it to glide to the ground and, to his relief, the biters outside paid no mind. "Good call," he told Lauren.

The clacking of teeth echoed through the garage. Jerome pressed himself against the door and pulled out his knife. A scantily-clad walker stepped out from behind the nearer car, pallid skin taut against its ribs. The corpse stalked towards him, gnarled hands outstretched.

Jerome shifted from foot to foot, then lunged forward and slammed the walker against the side of the car. A snarl tore out from its rotted mouth. Hands slithered up Jerome's side. He swiftly stabbed his blade into its temple and it slid down the car, taking his knife with it.

"There's another one," Lauren said.

A second walker appeared in the doorway to a back room. Jerome pressed his foot against the downed walker's chest and attempted to jerk his knife free, to no avail. Lauren's hands smacked against the counter as she shakily tried to pull herself up. She cried out and crumpled back down. The walker snarled madly and started towards her.

Jerome charged forward and kicked the walker's legs out at the knees. It floundered to the floor and wasn't stunned for more than a second before trying to stand. After frantically looking for a weapon besides his gun and not finding one, he kept it on the floor with a foot to its chest. Hands clamped around his ankle. He gasped and tried fervently to jerk his leg free. When it wouldn't release, he reached for his gun.

"Don't!" Lauren's knife clattered onto the granite countertop.

His hand desperately reached for the weapon, just inches out of his grasp. He faltered and joined the walker on the cold tile floor. The hands climbed higher and higher up his leg. Teeth gnashed inches from his calf. The hollow eyes locked with his. He ripped the revolver from his belt and fired. Half of the head splattered against his face. He gasped and quickly swept the muck off with his trembling fingers.

"Oh God, did it get you?" Lauren shakily gripped the counter again and peered over the top.

Jerome wiggled out from under the dead weight and checked his legs just to make sure. "No, I'm good."

He climbed to his feet and ran to her side. A tear in her jeans exposed the jagged wound underneath. Blood drenched most of her leg above the knee. "Let's get that wound cleaned up and find a way out of here."

"God, our group." She ignored his outstretched hand and buried her face in her arms.

Shambling silhouettes pounded against the garage door, making the hinges scream. Their hands beat a desperate tune, demanding to be let inside.

"Hey, this is our group we're talking about." By running away from the group rather than to them, maybe the men would miss them altogether. In any case, they were armed to the teeth. They would protect each other, they would protect themselves. His throat constricted against his suddenly suffocating coat. He gulped and said, "They're fighters."

She pulled the radio from her belt and handed it to Jerome. "Maybe they managed to hide the whole time."

He hesitated to speak, careful to keep his fingers from the buttons. What if no one answered? What if someone did and he had to hear their dying moments? Taking a deep breath, he finally called, "Hello, hello? Ben?"

A gruff voice replied, "_Ben can't talk right now_."

The radio slipped from his hands and he caught it just before it could hit the floor. His voice steadily rose as he demanded, "Who is this? What did you do? Listen to me, whoever you are...don't you dare hurt them. You hear me?" If they did hear him, they didn't respond. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out whatever Lauren said. They got them. His little girl, his wife, his friends, however many innocent souls, they were all at the hands of people who shot first and asked questions later.

* * *

Brick and paneled buildings flashed past the windows, along with the occasional walker. Arnold had turned around and was driving them back into the heart of the city. After a while, he launched into an explanation. "The National Guard supports the greater good. You join us and we survive together, with order and organization," he explained, casting a firm look over his shoulder as he drove. "You're either with us or against us because everything you take from the city, you're taking from us."

"You can have the city," Ben spat, gritting his teeth. "All we want is to leave, get to Anchorage. Hopefully there's somebody left there that hasn't decided tyranny is the way to go."

Marvin nodded in agreement and added, "And if not, we can live on our own like we've been doing."

"What if Anchorage has a reserve like ours?" Arnold questioned. "What if we grow large enough to expand and set up another base there?" He emphasized his points by tapping his fingers against the wheel. "Long. Term. Stability. That's our goal."

Hill sneered, "And we can't reach our goal with scrappy little rogue groups like you are out here sucking up our resources."

Arnold pulled into the Fairbanks City Hall parking lot and stopped near the back. The building stood three stories high, with a pale gray exterior and many windows. Most of the windows on the first floor were boarded over, as were the front doors. Two guards stood on either side of another set of doors at the back of the building. The parking lot was more like a parking garage, with various vehicles including a second armored truck.

"Here's how this is gonna work." At last, Hill tucked his pistol away. "You're going to get off this bus in a single file line and follow me over to the doors. You're going to go through those doors one at a time, and yes, that includes the kids." He glared at the youngest members of the group and their guardians. "Lieutenant Arnold and I will frisk you, make sure you're not hiding any guns, bites, or other funny shit. Then, you will be transported to a holding room while we wait for Captain Lancaster. Am I clear?"

Brandon had remained silent for the entirety of the trip, huddled underneath the quilt with Adrian in his lap. As Sergeant Hill blabbed on, his face somehow became even paler. Ben's own heart began to thud a little faster. There didn't seem to be any way for them to get out of this with a happy ending, and least of all Brandon.

Arnold scanned the parking lot before he switched the doors open. "Koneak and Mayer aren't here yet," he commented.

"Like I said, screw 'em." Hill pointed to Ben. "You first, then the Fort McAdams survivor. I want to get you out of the way first, you're the mouthy ones. Everyone else just line up, and don't you fucking _dare_ pull anything."

Ben trailed after Hill, following him across the cracked parking lot with a posture of defeat. The guards greeted their superior with smiles and held the strikingly clean, clear doors open. Hill stepped inside and paused to wipe his boots on the welcome mat.

Arnold took a seat on a nearby desk. He lifted a clipboard and gazed over the top of it at Ben. "Name?"

"Why?"

Hill glared down his nose. "_Name_."

"Ben Wallace."

Arnold scribbled quickly onto the paper and asked, "Age?"

"Forty."

"Height and weight?"

Ben scoffed. What were they planning to do, sell him as livestock? He crossed his arms and answered, "Five-foot-eleven, one hundred and sixty four pounds...last I knew."

Hill ordered, "Feet apart, arms out." He patted Ben from head to toe, turned out his pockets, made him take off his shoes - everything short of asking him to squat and cough. Once he was content Ben wasn't hiding anything, he jerked his head towards the back of the foyer, and tossed his shoes against the wall. Three large doors stood beside a beautiful mahogany staircase. "Stand over there," Hill said.

Ben trudged across the carpet and crouched down to retie his shoes. Rachel and Peggy paid their dues and joined him, then Brandon stepped inside and the three of them went stiff as stone pillars.

He held Adrian against his side, wrapped in the quilt. Hill snapped, "Does this whole group have hearing problems? I said -"

"He's just five years old, and he's scared," Brandon said, his voice strained with the effort of repressing a cough.

"The rules still apply to scared five year olds," Hill replied. "Put him down and step back."

"Please, just let me hold him," Brandon said. He'd hardly finished speaking before he gasped and his legs buckled, but he managed to remain standing. Sweat rolled in beads down the side of his pallid face.

Hill's already beady eyes narrowed further. He rested a hand on the pistol at his hip and growled, "Put the kid down."

There was no time left to negotiate, and Brandon knew it. He let out a shaky, shuddering breath, kissed Adrian on the head, and grunted as he set him down. The wound on his side was exposed in its full glory in the foyer's gleaming lights. The bite was an oozing, crimson hole, and the entirety of Brandon's clothing on that side had been stained with blood ten times over.

"Oh, shit!" Hill hollered and lurched back a step. "Arnold, he's bit!"

Brandon raised his hands placatingly. "B-but I'm okay right now," he said.

"Christ, you look as good as dead already," Hill snapped. "How the hell didn't I see it before…"

Arnold slunk over to them, one hand on the back of his neck. He gave a sidelong glance to Brandon and shrugged. "I guess we'll just put him in a room alone until it's time."

"Nah, I'll show you what we can do." Hill swiftly pulled the pistol from his holster.

"Don't!" Arnold dove forward and attempted to knock the gun out of his hands, but he was too late. Hill strode forward, fired a single, point-blank shot, and it was all over. Adrian wailed hysterically as his father's body dropped at his feet. Rachel screamed and shrank back against the wall, trying to shield Emma's view with her own torso. Marvin leapt forward and pulled the distraught little boy away from the nightmarish scene.

But Brandon wasn't dead yet. Blood gurgled in his mouth and poured from the gaping hole in the side of his head, but his glossy eyes found his son. He slurred out, "I...love…"

He breathed his last breath before he could finish.

* * *

**A/N: As I was writing the scene with Brandon and Adrian on the bus this morning, the hospital called to inform us my grandmother had passed away. This probably isn't the place for this, but I'd like to take a minute to talk about how The Walking Dead has become my coping mechanism. From the moment I first started watching the show, I was fascinated by this world. My home life wasn't great and there was always a lot of darkness and sadness in my life, and somehow The Walking Dead comforted me. It was like, "well, it could be worse" I guess. I had little experience with death. The only funeral I'd ever attended was my great-grandmother's when I was six, and of course I grieved, but I bounced back in the way little kids do. Now I'm 20, and lost both of my remaining grandparents within the past four months. My grandmother today, of course. Somehow, this deeply morbid and horrific universe, that I twist in new ways with my writing, brings me comfort. I can't explain it. But The Walking Dead has made me think a lot about life and death. It's shown me carrying on is possible, and will one day be worth it. So...writing this story has been very therapeutic, especially within the past few months, and I greatly appreciate all the feedback I've gotten.**


	15. Fifteen: Become

No matter how much he wanted to, Ben couldn't look away while two men in ill-fitting fatigues dutifully scrubbed the lobby's carpet. Their gloved hands periodically dipped large sponges into a bucket, turning the sprawling crimson patch on the floor into a red, sudsy puddle. One guard, a young woman wearing jeans and a pink jacket, took the lead in wrapping Brandon's body in a dirty sheet. She was assisted by two more men, who hoisted Brandon up and carried him off somewhere outside.

Arnold seemed to have given up on any protocol they had and didn't bother taking the rest of the group's details as they came into the City Hall lobby. He quickly patted them down, not nearly as thorough as Hill had been, then sent them to sand with the rest of their group by the staircase.

Sergeant Hill had stood still as stone and silent as a monk the whole time, watching the cleanup of his victim without batting an eye.

The remaining members of the group huddled together along the back wall while Arnold spoke to the men who'd been on guard outside. Ben glanced down the line of people at his side and the uneasiness he felt at finding only five people at his side was almost sickening. His group had downsized considerably just since that morning. Two were missing, one was dead. None of them should have been there and as far as Ben was concerned, a series of mistakes on his part was the source of all their troubles. He should've been suspicious of the blocked exits sooner. He should've tried to leave town earlier - or maybe they should've never left at all.

"Follow me." Arnold's voice was quiet but enough to snap Ben out of his guilt-fueled musing. He followed the lieutenant up rickety wooden stairs and looked over his shoulder once they reached the top to confirm there were still five people with him. Rachel led Adrian along by the hand. They turned at the landing and climbed a second staircase, this time stepping out into a hallway so immaculate their forms reflected against the polished tile as they trudged along. Black and white portraits of past city officials hung along the beige walls. Most of the doors were closed but one sat wide open. Three children huddled around a circular table, rather grimly scribbling into coloring books. As the group walked passed, a stony-faced woman stood from her seat on a small couch and closed the door.

They approached the end of the hallway, where an older man guarded a set of double-doors. His gray hair was buzzed close to his scalp like he was military, but he wore an argyle sweater and khaki pants. "Everything alright, Lieutenant?"

"It's under control, Keith." Arnold pushed open the rightmost door and waved them inside. "Captain Lancaster will be in soon to give you your introduction," he said.

Ben's stomach dropped as soon as he stepped foot in the room. It was long but not particularly wide, probably a former boardroom. All of the windows were boarded up from the inside, leaving nothing but cracks of sunlight and small lanterns to illuminate the room. Ben wrinkled his nose as the musty smells of dirty laundry and unwashed bodies assaulted his senses. A middle-aged man and woman sat together on a couple sleeping bags, warily eyeing the newcomers. There were far more sleeping bags and blankets than there were people, and Ben had a worrisome feeling that many more people had inhabited this room not long ago.

"Ben?"

A familiar voice called his name. Ben squinted, trying to make out the shadowy forms huddled in the corner. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his mouth fell open. Keisha and Aaliyah Evans sat tucked under a blanket. "Didn't expect to see you again," he said, lost for anything else to say. He'd never considered they were prevented from leaving Fairbanks too.

Relief flashed across Keisha's face but disappeared when Arnold pulled the doors shut. Her eyes scanned over the six of them, then she frowned. "Don't tell me you're all that's left…"

Ben hesitated, sharing an uneasy look with Marvin. There was no point in telling her all of the details, especially not with Aaliyah present. Someone was missing from her family, too, and Ben hoped the reason for Clarence's absence wasn't as tragic as Brandon's. He cleared his throat and said, "We've gotten kind of separated."

Keisha hesitantly plucked the blanket off and joined them, regarding Rachel with an expression of concern. Tears had been welling in her eyes since her husband's voice came through the radio but finally spilled over after what happened to Brandon and hadn't stopped since. "What happened?" Keisha asked softly. "You're not just separated, are you?"

Rachel tensed and guided Emma to go visit Aaliyah. After a moment of hesitation, the ten-year-old compiled and plopped down beside her old friend. Rachel's breath hitched and she choked out, "Jerome and Lauren got left behind downtown. A-and Brandon, oh God..."

Keisha put a hand over her mouth and shook her head as the unspoken implication of Rachel's words sank in. Silence mounted between them for a long moment, all of them too shell-shocked for words. After composing herself, Keisha explained, "We were almost out of town when this convoy cornered us. Captain Lancaster will try to talk this place up like it's something special, but I don't buy it. We tried to tell him we didn't want to come with him and he was so pushy...things got physical. Clarence got in a few good punches, but they took him away and we haven't seen him since." She looked downwards, closing her eyes.

"They're sick bastards," Peggy exclaimed. The strangers across the room flinched at her booming, obnoxious voice statement, but Peggy carried on, unphased. "We need to get out of here as soon as possible, I don't care if we have to burn the place down with them in it."

"You're right." Rachel wiped her eyes then tucked a stray lock of brunette hair behind her ear. "We've got to get back downtown before it's too late."

"Do I really have to spell this out?" Peggy glanced unsurely between Rachel and Ben then placed her hands on her hips. "One or both of them are probably walker chow. Lauren could barely move and Jerome, well…" She trailed off and quirked a brow, looking down her nose at Ben. "Going back for them is not only stupid, it's hypocritical." Ben stiffened, ready to give her a piece of his mind, but she held up a hand to silence him. "What was that you said when Brandon wanted to go after his sister? No rescue missions, right?"

Keisa began, "I know - "

"This is different," Ben spat. She wasn't going to flip this and make him out to be some biased jerk that didn't care about the group as a whole. He'd had enough of that theory. If she couldn't see the difference between looking for people whose location they couldn't even guess and going back for people they watched go down the street, that was her problem. "We know where they are," he said. "We saw them go."

"You know where they_ were_," she corrected with a little smirk. "If they've got half a brain between them, they're not there anymore. We have no idea where these guys are watching from. If we go back, we could drive right into another ambush." Without another word, Rachel stomped off and joined the kids. She sat beside Aaliyah and Emma with her knees pulled to her chest. Peggy watched her go and rolled her eyes.

Marvin shook his head, scowling at Peggy like she was a stranger who had just cut him off in traffic. "You want to leave 'em behind, just like that?" He chuckled humorlessly. "You could really do it, couldn't you?"

"It's not like I want to," Peggy said, throwing her hands in the air. "I don't have any ill-will against Lauren or Jerome. We _can't_ go back for them!" She scoffed. "Our big plan is to escape and drive right back to a block known to be under watch and crawling with walkers? Really?" She paused, glancing incredulously at the two men before her and over to Rachel. "You have to realize how stupid this is."

Ben wasn't sure what pissed him off more - that Peggy's attitude didn't even end while they were being held captive, or that he had to admit there was some truth to her words. Any number of things could have already happened to Jerome and Lauren, and they didn't know where Arnold's men were watching from. Either way, he couldn't stop the heat flushing his face. He wanted to tell her to just shut up already. He felt like letting her know he'd gladly trade her for Jerome and Lauren, given the chance. But before he could say a word, both doors swung open.

A slender, camouflage-clad man stepped into the room. Bruises ranging from purple to yellow to black covered both of his eyes and his lip had a deep split. He carried a folding chair in one hand and opened it with a jerk of his arm, then sat down. Ben guessed this was the guy he'd heard so much about. The one that was supposed to give them an 'introduction', the one Clarence pounded. He didn't look very captainly; underneath the bruises his face was very youthful, and his tousled sandy hair didn't have a speck of gray.

"I'm Captain Lancaster," he said, looking out into the hallway over his shoulder. A young woman entered, carrying a tray piled with fruit cups and granola bars. Ben did a double-take and inhaled sharply. This wasn't just any girl, it was Samantha.

She stood with sagged shoulders, shrinking meekly under the surprised eyes of the group. Keisha shrugged when Ben turned to her with wide eyes. "I was going to tell you but I didn't get the chance," she said.

"How?" Marvin asked, his voice rising an octave higher than usual. "When? What happened to Jake and Carmen?"

"You didn't tell me your group was so big, Sam." Lancaster gnawed his lip, biting back a grin. "Have we got 'em all now?"

Samantha gripped the tray a little tighter and shook her head. "Not even close," she replied, frowning at the group that was so much smaller than she'd last seen it. Then, she turned to face Marvin. "Jake didn't make it. Carmen got away but she probably didn't make it either. I think she broke her leg and we were both out of bullets."

Ben could tell this was a condensed version of whatever really happened. There simply _had_ to be more to it. If he had to bet who survived out of that trio, he would never have put his money on Samantha. He would've loved to hear the full story but she stepped forward and set the tray down on a nearby cardboard box then retreated into the shadows before anyone could ask more questions.

"Eat up." Lancaster rubbed his hands together slowly, watching them with an odd gleam in his eyes. When none of them went for the food, he pursed his lips. "Anyway...I'd like to start off by apologizing. I've heard about what happened, with your friends being left behind and what Sergeant Hill did." His jaw tightened and he shook his head. "Mayer, Koneak, Hill. They don't represent us. That's not what we're about."

"Then what are you about?" Ben demanded. The Captain could play nice all he wanted. That didn't make up for their losses, nor did it explain why they were taken in against their will.

"Preservation," Lancaster replied proudly. "Lieutenant Arnold, Sergeant Hill, and I made it out of Fort McAdams by the skin of our teeth. We knew right away what we had was pretty good before it went to shit, and would benefit society if we recreated it. So, we did." He smiled. "This place has been going for just over a month and look at us. Twenty-something strong with enough supplies to live comfortably."

"What happened?" Marvin narrowed his eyes. "You had the manpower, you had the supplies, the Fort was far enough from town walkers shouldn't have been too bad…"

Lancaster looked to his feet then cleared his throat. "Things just didn't work out," he said. "I uh...I was told we had fellow Fort survivors in our midst." His gaze flicked across the six of them. Rachel reluctantly raised her hand. Lancaster blinked, his brows raised in surprise. "How did you get out?"

Rachel wrapped her arms around her knees. When she replied, her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "It's all one big blur, it was so dark."

Ben could tell by the white sunlight filtering through the window boards that midday was upon them. Daylight was burning and there they were listening to some kid with blacked eyes praise his month old group to the moon. "Alright. So...what's the deal?" None of what Lancaster said struck Ben as particularly important or interesting - or convincing, for that matter. If this group was so successful, why had Lancaster entrusted _three_ questionable men with sentry duty? Other questions crossed his mind but there was only one answer he really wanted. "Why are we here?"

For a long moment Lancaster glowered at Ben, his expression shifting from fairly happy to irritated in a flash. "The National Guard was assigned to Fort McAdams. There were thirty of us. Trained soldiers and it still went to hell." The chair's metal legs scraped against the tile as Lancaster abruptly stood up. He paced back and forth, wringing his hands. "I almost died the night it all went down. It was total chaos. So dark you could hardly see your hand in front of your face, people running around screaming. I was trying to help everyone get out. I guess one guy didn't want help, 'cause he stabbed me right in the gut." Lancaster lifted his shirt. A purple, poorly-healed scar ran for three inches just above his jutted hip bone. "Luckily Keith found me and saved my life."

Ben did his best to keep a straight face as a wave of dread crashed over him. That sounded awfully similar to Jerome's story about what happened during his escape from Fort McAdams. In fact, it was almost word for word. Perspective was the only big difference. To Jerome, he was defending himself. To Lancaster, he was the victim of a random act of violence. How would he feel if he knew his attacker's wife and child were sitting ten feet away? Ben glanced anxiously to Rachel and his fears were all but confirmed. Her face had turned a ghostly pale and when she met Ben's gaze, she nodded a single, tiny nod.

As Lancaster tucked his shirt back into his pants, he sauntered towards Ben and didn't stop until they were nearly nose-to-nose. "I've seen plenty of people like you in the past couple months," he told him quietly. "You think you can make it on your own, you think you don't need anyone else. You're wrong. That guy stabbed me and left me for dead. That's how people are now." Lancaster clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing again. "I can't risk one of my guys going out there to serve this group and getting shot or stabbed because someone decided we're a threat. If you're not with us, you're against us."

Hardly a second passed before Marvin scoffed. "So you're just gonna keep us in this room forever?"

Lancaster turned on his heel and held the older man in a death glare. If he was expecting a compassionate response to his story, he was telling it to the wrong group. After everything his men had done, Ben doubted he was alone in thinking everyone would've been better off had Keith kept walking that night. The Captain stared at Marvin a moment longer, then answered, "You will be held here until I can find a suitable role or mentor for you...assuming you cooperate. He smirked. "Samantha's been here, what? Almost two weeks?And she _jumped_ at my offer to personally mentor her." His attention turned to the middle-aged couple crowded together on their sleeping bags. Neither of them had uttered a word since the arrival of Ben's group, their expressions never changing from mildly irritated. "We can't force you to do anything, of course," he added. "If you want to take the McPherson route, you'll come to know this room _very_ well."

* * *

Upon closer inspection, Jerome discovered there were _two_ holes in Lauren's thigh. To his limited knowledge, this was the best case scenario. It appeared the bullet entered the front of her leg and exited a few inches away through her inner thigh. Thankfully, he didn't have any reason to think the casing was lodged inside or had hit bone - not that he'd know what to do if it had. He was acting solely on whatever he picked up from movies and Rachel's work stories.

"I wish I could do better than this, but uh...for now it's all I've got." Jerome walked over to where Lauren had boosted herself up to sit on the counter. In five minutes he'd managed to collect all the auto shop's clean rags, but of course there wasn't so much as a Tylenol. Lauren curled her fingers around the counter's edge in a white-knuckle grip and squeezed her eyes shut. Jerome tentatively prodded a loose piece of denim aside to get a clearer look at the exit wound. It was twice as large as the dime-sized entry wound. His stomach turned at the mess of bloody, shredded flesh.

"What are you waiting for?" Lauren asked, cracking one eye to glare at him after he'd hesitated a moment too long. She jerked her thumb towards the garage door, where an unknown number of walkers continued to pound away. "We're gonna have to move soon."

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he began laying the cloths across her thigh. After he'd arranged all seven of them to overlap both wounds, he unbuckled his belt and whisked it from the loops of his pants, then used Lauren's knife to gauge a couple new holes in the end. "This is going to be the really shitty part," he said, casting her an apologetic look.

"Just get it done." She ran a hand through her hazel hair and smiled nervously. "I'll do my best to not kick you or scream and bust your eardrums or anything."

With this jimmy-rigged medical care, he wouldn't be surprised if she slugged him. He gently lifted her leg off the counter and slipped the belt underneath. Lauren whimpered as he pulled the belt as tight as he could, securing the rags in place. Blood pulsed from either side of the leather, saturating the cotton rags almost instantly. Once Jerome was content it'd do the job, he slipped the latch into one of the new holes and tucked the end in. "There," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "All done."

"Thanks." She lowered herself onto one foot then supported herself against the counter.

All Jerome could think of was what could've been going on down the street at that moment. His family could've already been shot or torn apart. They could be bleeding out in the street, suffering unspeakable agony. They could've even died and turned. And what could he do? Lauren could barely walk let alone run. They didn't have half a dozen bullets left between them and now they were down to one knife. Even if they took some of the tools laying around the shop, a wrench or screwdriver wouldn't do much against a heavily armed, human enemy.

"I don't know what to do now," he admitted.

A metallic screeching cut off Lauren's reply. The right side of the garage door popped off the track, providing a large crack between the door and the wall. Bony legs blocked out the temporary flash of sunlight as the walkers pushed onward. Lauren whirled to Jerome with wide eyes, nearly knocking herself off balance.

He took her under his arm and then shuffled around the counter and downed walkers into a second, smaller garage. This room was half the size of the last one, with space for only one vehicle, though there wasn't one. All of the doors were shut and there were only two windows, leaving them in near darkness once Jerome kicked the door shut.

"Oh, man..." Lauren grunted as Jerome deposited her on the floor. She gripped her knife tightly in both hands and stared at the door as if she expected the walkers to rip it off the hinges at any moment. Seconds ticked by and the snarls stayed in the distance. She exhaled shakily. "Okay, at least they haven't got through yet."

"Yeah." Jerome's brown eyes flicked from corner to corner, searching for something to block the door. A few shelves of auto parts and fluids sat here and there but he knew from experience shelves wouldn't cut it. Tool chests lined the walls but most of them weren't more than a few feet tall. The largest chest also happened to be closest to the door, but this one appeared too heavy for one person to move. He sighed, opting to lean against the door for the time being. They couldn't stay there long anyhow.

For a few moments neither of them uttered a word, they just focussed on catching their breath. Then Lauren peered to her right, where a narrow staircase led up to a battered metal door. "I wonder what's up there," she said curiously. "Maybe a way out?"

"I don't know about that, unless we sprout wings." He frowned but started up the stairs anyway. If nothing else the roof could be a vantage point, or a temporary escape if walkers broke through. Once he reached the door, Jerome knocked and leaned close to listen for signs of undead on the other side. He turned back to Lauren and said, "Cross your fingers," then pushed the door open. Frigid air blasted inside and chilled him to the bone. The weathered tar-and-gravel roof stretched before him, contained within cement half-walls. He walked around the stairwell wall to view the rest of the roof and froze at the sight of a figure slumped in a lawn chair. He relaxed once he realized this person was long dead. Limp hands with chipped, painted fingernails hung from either side and dirty blonde hair flapped around a gaping hole in the back of its head.

Jerome crept closer and grimaced, pulling his coat up over his nose before the stench of decaying, suncooked corpse made him gag. The lower half of the deceased's face was blown off, leaving sunken, rolled back eyes. A double-barrel shotgun laid beside the chair, along with an empty beer bottle. He paused, running a hand over the thickening stubble along his jaw. Walkers were becoming rather run of the mill. No matter how much remorse he carried for killing them, the 'kill or be killed' nature of the world was becoming more and more apparent. Suicides, however, still sent a sorrowful pang through his heart. Imagining the desolation someone must feel to take their own life was almost too much to bear, especially after Kate.

He briskly turned away and walked to the opposite side of the roof, stopping at the gritty half-wall. Crispy leaves skittered along the street below. Ravenous moans from the front of the building carried to the roof. Jerome realized with a jolt of that this was a way out after all. There wasn't a walker in sight, they were still busy trying to get inside. It wasn't as far to the ground as he expected, especially not with the dumpster below. He could easily drop down and run back to the intersection...and then what? He doubted the group was just sitting there playing I-Spy, waiting for Jerome and Lauren to come skipping back. Surely they either drove off themselves or were taken elsewhere by the strangers. Even worse, if he found everyone dead...

Just as he was ready to give up hope, something caught Jerome's eye. A dark trail of fluid ran down the middle of the road. He leaned over the wall and squinted, recognizing the glistening black substance almost instantly. "Motor oil," he commented, biting back a smile. The pickup's oil tank must have been nicked during the shootout. Assuming they drove somewhere nearby, they may have left a trail behind that would lead Jerome right to them. Maybe it wasn't a solution, but at least it was a start. He went back inside and plodded down the stairs, taking a seat on the last one. "Well," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "We've got a couple of options."

"Listen, I know you're French but you've got to stop with this 'we' stuff." Lauren readjusted herself against the wall, carefully moving her bad leg. "If you've found a way to go, _you_ have to go."

"You can't be serious," he said, staring at her in disbelief. "I'm not going without you. No one else knows where you are, what if something happens to me?" He fervently shook his head and swung his hand towards the door. "We've got a clean getaway. All of the biters are busy trying to get in the front. And there's a trail of oil that has to be from that truck. One of us must've nicked their fuel tank, it could lead us right to them if nobody's at the intersection."

She snorted. "Are you gonna piggyback me across town? Because I can't go any farther on this leg."

He focused forlornly on her wound, brows furrowing. Leaving her behind just wasn't right. She was in no position to defend herself. If the biters did break inside, she'd be trapped. Besides, it was a real possibility he wouldn't be able to come back for her. There had to be some way to bring her along. After a moment of consideration, he suggested, "How about I rig you some crutches?"

"I'll still be too slow," she replied, shaking her head. "Those guys either wanted to rob us or take us somewhere...God only knows why. You don't need me dragging you down while you figure that out."

"What if they got away and drove back to camp?" He hadn't thought about that possibility before, but now that it occurred to him he was feeling apprehensive about the whole thing. What if he tracked down their attackers for nothing, while the group was safely back at Red Fox Creek? He wouldn't blame Ben if he'd driven off without them, since for all he knew they were both dead already. He sighed. "Figuring things out as I go doesn't seem like the best way to do this."

"Someone had Ben's radio," Lauren curtly reminded him. "I'm guessing they were ambushed just like us, but that's a guess. You have to go see what you can find and trust your gut."

There was no way in hell he was leaving without knowing the group's fate, so what else could he do? He used the railing to stand up. "Alright," he agreed with a nod. "How many bullets have you got left?"

"Not many, maybe one or two," she answered. "Just take this, you need it more than I do." She pulled the knife from her coat and handed it off to Jerome. He reluctantly tucked it away and waited for her to elaborate. She pointed up the stairs and explained, "I want to hide up there. If I'm quiet, the walkers might not find me if they get inside."

"If that's what you want." He came to her side and helped her to her feet, offering support in place of her bad leg.

When they reached the door, Jerome booted it open and led Lauren over to the corner where the half-walls met. "Hopefully you'll have a bit of shelter from the weather here," he said, lowering her onto her rump. He started to shrug off his coat but stopped when Lauren wildly waved her hands.

"No, no," she chided. "Cut the chivalry, you're going to be just as cold."

He couldn't force her to accept his coat but there was no saying how long he'd be gone. Most likely he'd be indoors at some point, assuming he found their attackers. Lauren, on the other hand, was stuck between a rock and hard place. The weather could become a real threat very quickly and she would have to risk being trapped by walkers to get out of it. He hated the thought of the group being so split up and everybody in varying levels of danger, but the clock was ticking. Lauren was safe for the time being and he couldn't focus on her any longer.

With nothing else to say, Jerome walked over to the long-dead corpse at the opposite corner. He lifted the shotgun from its place beside the lawn chair, where it'd laid so long that an outline of dirt was left behind. The weapon's sleek wooden grip slid through Jerome's hands as he reached the chamber and popped it open. He counted only two shells inside and sighed as he snapped the latch shut. "There are only two rounds," he informed Lauren.

"That's fine, I probably won't even need it." She took the shotgun as Jerome handed it off and positioned it across her lap. Sweat glittered against her pallid face and gathered in the dark circles beneath her eyes. "So...this is it," she commented.

"Yeah." He scuffed his boot against the roof, casting a reluctant gaze down the street. Somehow none of it felt real. Everything had been okay just that morning, just a few short hours ago. Soon he would find the fate of his group, good or bad, or worse, he wouldn't find anything at all. He turned his attention back to Lauren and promised, "I _will_ come back for you."

"Just focus on finding the others and not getting yourself killed first, okay?" She raised her trembling fist.

"You've got it."

They fist-bumped and then Jerome dropped over the half-wall.

He scurried from shadow to shadow, using trees and bushes for cover. Even if he looked and felt silly, he knew this was a 'better safe than sorry' situation. The street may have seemed clear from the roof, but they thought the intersection was clear too. He reached the end of the street without encountering any walkers and hurried around the corner, crouching behind a thick cottonwood near the sidewalk. From there he had a clear view of the intersection and that was when his heart dropped into his stomach.

The strange armored truck was still parked at the opposite stop sign. The camp's new car, the one Emma had been in, still sat at the curb. But there was nothing but open space where the bus was supposed to be. At first he began to panic, worrying they'd been gunned down right there, but there were no signs of a struggle. The only blood and bullet casings were from his and Lauren's gunfight. A dozen or more walkers ambled throughout the street, but none of them were familiar faces.

Suspecting the group wouldn't be there was one thing. Seeing that they were gone for himself was another. He stifled a sigh and leaned against the tree's rough trunk, curling his blood-caked fingers into the bark. Escaping the shootout unscathed was a miracle, now here he was with the group's rescue solely on him. _Him_. Jerome Dufour, who had to be one of the most inexperienced survivors, who was smart enough to admit to himself that he hadn't had much to do with his own survival thus far.

He'd never been religious and hadn't given God or Jesus or whoever much thought at all in his life. But with such an unknown road ahead, he found himself praying. _Let them be okay_, he pleaded silently, looking up to the overcast sky in hope someone was listening. _Show me what to do and give me the strength to do it. _He turned and eyed the oil trail, wondering if his prayers had already been answered.

He stood and continued to follow the trail, frequently glancing up to scan his surrounding for threats, undead or otherwise. Fortunately, he hadn't had to put the knife to use.

The streets he traveled had been upscale neighborhoods at one point. Two storey-homes, white picket fences, and a sea of snow-covered fallen leaves in place of once manicured lawns.

The oil only continued for a few blocks before the black stream thinned to sparse droplets. Jerome trudged to the last drop in sight and stopped to figure out what was next. This must've been the part where he had to 'follow his gut', as Lauren had said, but the prospect caused a surge of panic. One mistake could lead him farther from his people...that was, if he'd even gotten any closer. "Okay, okay," he whispered, forcing himself to focus on the present. There were no turns in sight and obviously they hadn't driven into one of the houses. The street ended in a t-junction, which narrowed his choices down to 'left' or 'right'.

Jerome jogged to the end of the street and only looked to the left before he froze, eyes widening. The black, bullet-riddled truck was abandoned in the middle of the street thirty feet down. The driver's side door hung open and the faint _ding-ding-ding _sounded endlessly. His chest constricted at the sight of four walkers a few feet from the truck, clustered around a large, bloody lump in the road. He was sure they'd set their sights on him at any moment, but they were so busy shoveling handfuls of innards into their rasping mouths they hadn't even noticed he was there. He backtracked towards the house on the corner and crouched where the concrete steps met the porch.

One way or another, those biters had to go. That truck had been going somewhere, and Jerome had to continue up that road to check for more clues. However, he'd barely escaped _two_ biters in the auto-shop. Going head-to-head with four of them was out of the question. He'd have to figure out some way to tear them away from their precious meal. _This should be simple_, Jerome thought, turning his attention to the stones within a flower bed beside the porch. He leaned over and gathered some of the stones into his arms, then stood up. He edged his way towards the street, careful to stay hidden from the walker's line of sight just to be safe.

The house across the way had a large picture window beside the front door. He took a handful of rocks from his arm and hurled them towards the shimmering, sunlit glass. As the window smashed into billions of shards, Jerome pressed himself back against the house. He waited with every muscle in his body prepared to move, ready to run for it once the walkers came to investigate...only they never did. After standing there for far too long, Jerome craned his head around the corner and scowled. None of the dead found the noise interesting enough to stop feeding.

_Well, shit. Back to the drawing board. _Jerome let the remaining rocks in his arms fall to the ground. If noise wasn't going to distract them, he had to assume only the temptation of live meat would. He released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, knowing he had to be more direct.

"Hey," he called, allowing his voice to waver. It was just him and the biters, and they didn't care how scared he was. "Come on!" He thumped his fist rhythmically against the house's siding and cringed, every fiber of his being urging him to stop. The only female biter slowly turned and locked eyes with Jerome. Crimson pulp dripped down her rotted face and plopped onto her ripped, billowing dress. He stopped pounding and took a couple steps back as she started towards him. "This way!" He clapped his hands a few times and the other walkers followed.

Jerome bounded around the porch, sweat chilling his face. The biters were moving fast now that they had prey in sight, and all it would take was one misstep for them to descend upon him. He reached the privacy fence and flung the gate open. Nothing lurked in the backyard besides brown, overgrown grass and a swing set, so he hurried to the middle of the yard and paused. "Come on," he murmured, the world around him falling away as he waited with bated breath for the biters to reappear.

As soon as the walkers staggered through the gate, Jerome bolted for the opposite stretch of fence. He leapt upwards and the lattice top of the fence slammed into his belly, bringing his escape to a screeching halt as a stinging ache radiated through his lower midsection. He groaned a string of curse words and heaved himself the rest of the way over, tumbling into the gutter below. The biters reached the fence seconds later and pounded against it, but the thick wooden panels barely moved.

Jerome pushed himself upright, taking a moment to catch his breath. Fresh bangs and scrapes throbbed throughout his arms and legs, which had taken the brunt of his fall. The body the biters had been feeding on laid a few feet away. Most of the flesh had been torn from the bone, and everything that should've been inside him was splattered in the street. Jerome leaned forward to get a better look and deflated back again. A few tatters of familiar camouflage fatigues hung from his legs. Although this guy tried to kill Jerome and Lauren, Jerome couldn't help but feel a little somber. Nobody deserved to die in agony, being ripped apart and devoured. He climbed to his feet and tentatively moved forward. The man's face had been almost completely torn away, but one eyeball remained in a hollow socket. It couldn't have been long since he died; he hadn't even turned.

Jerome winced and thrust his knife into an ivory stretch of bone at his mangled forehead. He wrenched the knife back and flicked the gunk off, then replaced it at his hip. He walked to the truck next and plopped onto the soft seat, pulling the door shut. Despite knowing it wouldn't work, he turned the key a few times. Naturally, the engine refused to do anything but splutter and cough. "Figures," he grumbled. He opened the center console first and combed through the items within, hoping to find some clue where these people came from. He tossed receipts and food wrappers aside before reaching the bottom. A few gun shells and a pencil laid amongst crumbs and cigarette ashes.

The glove box yielded similar results and once he was content this truck didn't contain clues, Jerome deflated against the seat. "Shit." He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, elbows resting on the steering wheel. He only had a few hours before the sun set, and he didn't need to be out in the open with walkers at dark. It was him against the world, and he was losing, but the fight wasn't done until he found his family.

With nothing else to be done, he hopped out the truck and continued up the street. Soon, the houses became sparse and were replaced by expanses of vacant lots. Tall buildings peeked through the nearly barren trees. Jerome glanced around for anything besides overgrown, undisturbed grass and dusty vehicles. He was growing desperate for any sign of life, some indication that the living had at least passed through here in the past _month_. Walker carcasses laid every few yards but Jerome couldn't tell how recently they'd been killed. All of their heads had gaping holes where someone had delivered some well-aimed headshots, but their blood was already brown and coagulated.

His heart grew heavy as he came upon another four-way stop. Three paths faced him and he had no way of knowing what any of them would bring. Just when he was beginning to fret, the all too familiar _pop-pop-pop_ of gunfire sounded in the distance. The shots halted just as quickly as they started, and Jerome was beginning to think he imagined it when a couple walkers staggered out from the recesses between two shops across the way. He stood still as stone, praying there was enough distance that they wouldn't pick up his scent. The larger walker, a heavily rotted man with only a bone for his left arm, turned every which way trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.

The gunfire began again, this time with more intensity. Whoever was firing this gun was doing it as quickly as they could. The second walker, a smaller female, immediately started up the road, dragging one foot behind her. The other followed, and after a few moments, Jerome was third in line. He lagged far enough behind that he wasn't overly worried about getting noticed, but close enough he could watch their every move. He stepped carefully along the sidewalk, watching for anything that he could step on and draw attention to himself. He'd been up close and personal with walkers enough to last him a lifetime. The gunfire slowed from continuous to periodic as they approached, but it was enough to hold the biter's interest. Jerome ducked behind a parked car as they came upon a hill steep enough that it obstructed his view of the other side.

The walkers had just reached the slope's peak when another shot echoed through the block. The male walker's head exploded, nearly eliminating it completely, and the rest of him rolled back down the hill. Guts and slop flew out along the way, leaving a trail behind the corpse as it came to rest a few feet from Jerome.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no…" The smooth, deep voice of a young man sounded from somewhere beyond the hill. Something metallic clattered to the street. The female walker groaned enthusiastically and started down the other side of the peak. Jerome heard a few more panicked noises from the man, then the tell-tale squelch as some type of melee weapon silenced the walker's quick moans.

Jerome peeked over the car's trunk and through the windows. Half a man bobbed along the incline. He clutched a hammer and turned circles, searching for any more biters. Jerome recognized him as one of the men that had shot at him and Lauren. Now that Jerome was seeing him up close, he could tell this guy was hardly more than a kid, definitely in his early twenties. He still wore the camouflage cargo pants, but the top had been ripped away to reveal a gray undershirt. Blood streamed down his forearm from where a jagged chunk had been ripped away just above his wrist. The jet black swathe of hair atop his head was matted and speckled with pink and red blobs.

He turned a final circle then collapsed to the street, his chest heaving as his breath came in unnaturally quick puffs. "Dammit...God _dammit_." His voice cracked and he began to weep.

Jerome pulled the revolver from his waist. He flipped the chamber open and stared at the two bullets within, then snapped it shut. This young man was there for the taking. Bitten. On his knees, bawling like a baby, armed with nothing more than a hammer. Some may have called it karma. What comes around goes around and all that. But Jerome felt like this was a test, one of those 'find out what you're made of' moments, and he was failing. He should've been blind with rage, he should've wanted to charge at him and rip his throat out for shooting at him and being with the men who took his family, but he didn't.

Chances were this guy hadn't started out as some monster who shot at strangers, he'd been turned into one by circumstance, by the world they were living in. And Jerome was moments away from doing the same thing. Even if he could justify it, he hated the idea of raising his gun on _anyone_. However, he had no choice. Maybe this man hadn't either. He did, however, open fire on two innocent people and could've been the one that shot Lauren. His accomplices had taken everyone Jerome cared about. He almost certainly could tell Jerome where his family was. He was gonna have to talk, and there was only one way Jerome could make him.

He stood from his hiding place and started up the slope with the pistol held tightly between his outstretched hands.

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**A/N: I'd like to know your thoughts and predictions. What do you think will happen next? Who's your favorite character? Anyway, I've greatly appreciated all the support and feedback I've received for this story so far.**


	16. Sixteen: East Fifth Avenue

**A/N: Quick note before we start - Yuka's name is pronounced **_**You - Kuh.**_

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"Hey," Jerome called to the stranger, tensing when he looked at him with an expression akin to seeing a walking corpse for the first time. "I don't - "

The young man tossed the hammer aside with a clatter and threw his hands in the air. "P-please don't kill me!" He wailed and babbled pleadingly. "That was all Mayer, I swear!"

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Jerome said, slowly lowering his pistol. Careful to keep his tone neutral, he asked, "What's your name?"

The man's lips trembled but he didn't speak. He glanced around unsurely, like he expected there to be someone else. Finally, he croaked, "Yuka Koneak."

"Okay, Yuka…" Any bluffs Jerome was gonna try to intimidate him with vanished from his mind as he started up the slope. Yuka cowered down, and his breath quickened the closer Jerome got until he was nearly hyperventilating. Jerome kept ten feet between them just so Yuka wouldn't keel over right then. "This doesn't have to end badly for either of us," Jerome told him. "I just have some questions I need you to answer."

Yuka's dark brown eyes looked Jerome up and down, seeming to evaluate him. Then, he said, "W-what if we help each other?" Jerome raised his eyebrow questioningly, wondering what there was left to help with. Yuka sniffled and wiped his face on his arm, clearing the accumulating tears, snot, and walking muck from his tan skin. He shakily extended the other arm and nodded to the gaping crater of a bite low on his forearm. "I got it about fifteen minutes ago, it's not too late," he said.

"Not too late for what?" Jerome asked, still not sure what this guy expected. As far as he knew, the only way to help someone with a bite was to stop them from turning, and that didn't seem to be what Yuka was getting at. In any case, his arm looked _bad_. Jerome was surprised he could even think straight, with the pain he must've been in.

"If you amputate a limb soon enough, you won't turn." Yuka hiccupped a few times and he choked on another sob. "Th-this guy in my group got bit and we cut his leg off. H-he never turned."

"Really?" Jerome frowned. He'd never heard that one before. Not that it mattered, everyone in his group got bit in the worst places possible, where there was no way to amputate. Jerome looked thoughtfully to the horizon, where the sky was still overcast but beginning to take on the midnight blue hue of dusk. Yuka probably wouldn't make it through the night either way. He'd already lost a lot of blood, and some back-alley amputation without proper medicine and care would finish him off. There were more pressing issues at hand, like the whereabouts of his group who, last Jerome knew, _weren't_ at death's door. Still, the guy was obviously clinging to the idea that he had a chance, and Jerome didn't have it in him to crush it. Jerome clenched his jaw and silently cursed himself. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

Yuka relaxed a little, allowing his arms to sink. "Thanks, man. If - "

"First things first." Jerome reluctantly brought his gun back up and Yuka raised his arms again. "What the fuck is with your group? Where did you take my family, and why? You better tell me _everything_, or I'm not helping you with shit. Got it?" Jerome's anger spiked as he remembered this kid hadn't been crying when he hopped out of a truck and held innocent people at gunpoint without a second thought. He took a menacing step forward, as if staring down the barrel of his .44 magnum wasn't intimidating enough. "Tell me where my family is," he demanded, his voice so low it was almost a growl.

"Okay, okay!" Yuka nodded fervently and stumbled over his words as he tried to explain everything at once. "We - I - they're National Guard, we're recruiting people."

"Bullshit," Jerome spat. He tightened his fingers around the pistol and fought down budding fury. "You're really gonna look me in the eye and lie? The National Guard is gone."

"No, I _swear_," Yuka replied earnestly. "There are three or four guys left from the refugee center, it went down so they've been trying to create something similar. We need people more than anything, so we keep watch around the block for people to recruit." He paused, only continuing once he saw Jerome wasn't going to charge him. "Your people should be fine unless one of 'em pulled a gun or something. We can't use people if they're dead so we try to keep things peaceful."

Jerome almost laughed. Did he think Jerome forgot the Deadwood style shootout they were in an hour ago? "Hopping out of your truck with your guns up isn't peaceful," he said.

Yuka hung his head and sighed. "It was our first time on guard duty. Mayer said there were too many of you, we had to make sure we were in control."

Both men stiffened at the sound of raspy growls and uneven, approaching footsteps. Walkers scuffed along from the backstreets and shadows on either side of the slope, slowly closing in around them. Jerome tucked his gun away and snatched up the hammer instead. "Don't mess with me," he said, then grabbed a fistful of Yuka's shirt and pulled him to his feet. "Let's go."

Yuka stumbled and struggled to keep up as Jerome hurriedly dragged him along the road. "Go where?" He eyed the nearing walkers, undoubtedly nervous without a weapon to defend himself.

"You tell me," Jerome replied. "Where'd your group take my group?"

"Uh…" Yuka gulped. He hesitated, seeming to know whatever he was about to say wasn't the best idea. "Help me with my arm, then I'll tell you," he said, with much less conviction than Jerome expected. "I-I'm sorry, but if we wait too long, it might not work."

"Fine," Jerome conceded, but not before cutting the younger man a look that let him know just how dissatisfied he was with this arrangement. He may not have wished the guy any ill-will, but his own group was still his top priority and he didn't appreciate being manipulated. "How much thought have you put it into this?" Jerome asked as they hurried aimlessly up the road. "Do you even know what you're asking? It's gonna be the worst pain of your life, and without proper bandages or antibiotics…" he trailed off, not willing to spell it out for him. 'You're going to die' was too blunt, and surely Yuka already knew that.

Yuka started to speak, but his words morphed into a shriek. He reared back when two biters fought their way from behind some withering bushes nearby as they rounded a corner. The two men backtracked at first, but more groans sounded from behind them. Jerome whirled around and realized they were far from losing the biters, and more had joined the hunt. He froze for a moment, his focus bouncing from one walker to the next, until he remembered he _had_ to act. He lunged to the nearest walker and wailed on it with the hammer until it collapsed, unmoving, to the street. A second walker filled its spot almost immediately and Jerome dropped it with one strike to the head.

In their desperate haze to get away from the walkers, Jerome and Yuka had wound up in another residential block. Houses lined the street as far as Jerome could see. This was a _neighborhood_, somewhere with much less supplies than a commercial district, a place most people had left behind long ago. It went against all of Jerome's experiences in Fairbanks, but there were walkers everywhere he looked. In every yard and loitering randomly every few feet in the road, some were clustered together in the driveways. No matter where they were waiting for fresh meat, they were all locked onto Jerome and Yuka, and excitedly started towards them.

"We can't outrun this many," Jerome said, mouth suddenly dry as a bone. His 'fight or flight' instinct was _not_ leaning towards 'fight' - it rarely was - but there would be no quick getaway this time. Two men couldn't go up against dozens of walkers, not with two bullets, a knife, and a hammer. Trying to run for the cars parked behind them was a risk Jerome was not willing to take. If they were locked, as most abandoned cars seemed to be, they would be surrounded in five seconds flat. "We have to hide in one of these houses," he decided aloud, his words short and curt.

"Give me my hammer." Yuka held his hand out expectantly. He shifted anxiously from foot to foot, his gaze darting from the nearing walkers to hold Jerome's gaze. "I can help you fight while we run for it."

Jerome plopped the hammer into Yuka's waiting hand. He didn't have time to think it over, even if he wasn't certain that hammer wasn't going to be stuck in his skull as soon as his back was turned. "Get ready and follow me," he said, forcing his voice not to tremble. He pulled Lauren's knife from his belt and took one final steadying breath, then darted for the closest house.

Yuka and Jerome slashed, stabbed, and shoved their way through the approaching mass of walkers. Jerome was running on survival instinct after the first ten seconds, aware of little other than the rank breath, fingers brushing against his arms, and the near-rhythmic action of bracing his arm against the walker's chests, stabbing them in the temple, and yanking the knife free. Yuka followed close behind and provided backup for the walkers that were right on Jerome's heels.

The house loomed ahead, seemingly never any closer. It was more rundown than the other houses Jerome had seen, with cracked foundation and rickety looking steps. There was an upper floor, however, and Jerome had a feeling that's where they were going to end up anyway.

By the time they reached the porch, both Jerome and Yuka were out of breath and covered in muck from head to toe. Jerome hurried to the door and tried to push it open. He cursed when, _of course_, it was locked. He backed up to the steps, dashed forward, and threw himself into the solid oak. The door refused to give and pain jolted through Jerome's already battered body. He slumped to the porch and stood up just as quickly. Yuka stood at the base of the stairs, pounding away at any walker that came within reaching distance. Jerome grit his teeth and launched himself forward once again, aiming as close to the jamb as he could. This time, the door flew inward with an explosion of splintery wood.

Jerome, still a little dazed from breaking inside, staggered into the house. He didn't have to beckon Yuka to follow. The younger man bolted after him and slid to a stop at the end of a long gray couch, centered in the living room they stood in. "Hurry, get the other end!" He braced his hands on either end of the arm rest, growling as the rough fabric caught on his bite wound.

The two of them slid the couch towards the door. Jerome stumbled over the humps in the carpet the couch made and narrowly missed busting his chin on the arm he'd been holding. He quickly recovered and bore his full weight against his end of the couch while Yuka pulled. They were halfway there when a walker stomped inside. Jerome whipped out his revolver and used the last two bullets putting it down. Yuka grabbed the walker by its decayed arm and thrust the corpse out of their path.

With one final heave, Jerome slid the couch into place before the front door. Luckily the door hadn't detached from its hinges and slammed shut behind the couch. "Shit..." Yuka shook his head and exhaled slowly, puffing up his cheeks. "I think we'd be better off going upstairs and blocking the stairway."

"You go ahead." Jerome edged his way toward the next room where a long table and chairs sat. "I'll be right up." He reached the doorway and paused to add, "My name's Jerome, by the way."

"Where are you going?" Yuka's thick brows furrowed.

"Just go." Jerome dashed through the dining room and into the kitchen. A heavily-curtained window above the sink provided the only dim light. Jerome blindly moved forward and spotted a door next to the fridge. All of this was based on a hunch, but he'd noticed the house had an attached garage, and hoped the previous owners had some decent tools. He pushed the unlocked door open and quickly scanned the enclosure for biters. Once he saw it was clear, he hurried to the back of the garage, where there was a workbench and above it, a pegboard.

Many types of tools hung on the wall, but Jerome only grabbed three things: a roll of duct tape, a hammer, and a hacksaw.

* * *

As darkness fell over Fairbanks City Hall, the boardroom Ben and his group were being held in took on an ominous gloom. The events of the day and the uncertainty of their futures hung in the air, almost a palpable cloud of blackness. There were a few dim lanterns throughout the room that shrouded the dozing forms of the survivors in pale blue light. Emma sat with her head in her mother's lap, who stroked her hair as napped. The youngest Dufour's eyes were still red and puffy from where she'd cried herself to sleep. After watching her father get shot at and subsequently left behind on a walker-infested street, Ben wondered if she would ever recover.

And then there was Adrian. There was no question that what he'd witnessed would stay with him for the rest of his life. His own father, bitten and later murdered all in front of his own eyes. He was nestled under Rachel's free arm, but hadn't slept. He surveyed the room with wide eyes and flinched every time there was a sound out in the hallway.

Ben did much of the same. He sat with his back against the wall, facing the doors, wondering if Lancaster or Samantha would return before morning. They'd already come back twice, once to offer dinner and then to provide everyone with thin blankets and stained pillows. Ben left the plate of roast squirrel and sliced tomatoes untouched, and he hadn't yet slept. How could he, when he was being held prisoner and his best friend had been left for dead?

Across the room, the older couple that had hardly looked in Ben's direction in all the time he'd been there, slept curled around one another. Ben's gaze remained on them for a while. They were lucky to have each other. That would've been him and Kate in a few more years.

Ben's focus was thankfully interrupted when one of the doors squeaked open, slicing the room with a large strip of light. Captain Lancaster leaned inside and looked at Ben. "Come here," he said quietly, motioning with his hand. Ben took a deep breath and reluctantly followed Lancaster out in the hallway.

Keith, the man who had been guarding the door earlier, was gone and had been replaced by a younger woman with thin, blonde hair sitting in a lawn chair. She looked Ben up and down, then returned to the paperback novel in her hands. A larger lantern sat beside her feet. "So," Lancaster began, leading Ben to the middle of the hall. "How's your group?" Ben's only answer was a scathing glare that, if looks could kill, would've dropped the so-called Captain where he stood. Lancaster cleared his throat and said, "Again, I'm sorry how this all happened."

"Sorry doesn't change shit," Ben snapped.

Something on Lancaster's bruised face shifted, leaving his eyes a little darker. "I brought you out here to level with you, stop treating you like a captive. But if you'd like to just keep being an asshole, we can turn right the hell around."

Ben snorted and crossed his arms. The audacity of this guy never ceased to amaze him. "Well, excuse me," he sneered.

Lancaster growled irritably and stalked off towards the stairs. "Let's go," he ordered.

Ben trudged after him up the staircase until they reached the third floor. One side of the short hallway was lined with large, clear picture windows. Ben stopped for a moment to take in the view of snowy streets and slow-moving walkers, darkened houses and bare trees. His gaze lingered on the moon's faint crescent shape in the purple sky. He wondered if at that moment, Jerome and Lauren could've been looking at the same moon...or if they had been dead for hours.

After they'd stood in silence for a while, Ben unwilling to initiate any sort of conversation, Lancaster said, "I'll let you in on a little secret...I promoted myself to Captain." Ben suppressed a scoff and looked at him quizzically. "See," Lancaster continued, "When this all started, I was just a Private. But after everything that happened, I couldn't start something like this and still have people calling me _Private_." He chuckled to himself. "Nah, that just isn't fitting."

"I've been leading a group too," Ben said. "And I never bothered with fancy titles."

"You never bothered with any form of structure, either." Lancaster turned on his heel and continued leisurely down the hall. Ben thought he was awfully brave to turn his back on him. "Samantha told me a little about how you guys. I think you'll all fit in well here." He stopped when he reached the end of the short passage and turned back to Ben with an almost believable expression of remorse. "It sounds like Brandon would've been a great addition."

Ben couldn't bear to look at him for another moment. He redirected his attention to the wall and the inspirational posters that lined it. "So, what? We don't get any say in whether we stay or not?"

Lancaster didn't answer for a few moments. "We already discussed this earlier," he finally said, voice quiet but firm. "If you leave, you're putting this movement in jeopardy."

Ben laughed. "Oh, so you're a _movement_ now?"

All of the calm left Lancaster's face in a flash. He bared his teeth as he stormed forward, grabbed Ben by the collar of his jacket, and began dragging him back downstairs.

* * *

Jerome and Yuka were quick to barricade themselves in a bedroom upstairs. Yuka collapsed onto the queen-sized bed as soon as they were inside, panting and cradling his bitten arm. The room contained only furniture and a few family photos, certainly nothing useful. Some of the walkers downstairs had already slipped past the couch, but Jerome was sure there weren't enough inside to worry about yet. Just to be safe, he slid the desk and bookshelf in front of the door, sending books and pens flying to the floor in the process.

"We should hurry," Jerome said, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. Urgency was weighing him down more than ever. Everything was moving too fast and he knew time was going to run out soon, not only for himself but for his group, wherever they were. Jerome returned to the supplies he'd thrown down when he ran into the room. He gathered the hacksaw, duct tape, and hammer, tucking the latter into his belt but dropping the saw and tape onto the bed. "I'll ask one more time," he began slowly, waiting until Yuka's dark, apprehensive gaze met his to continue. "Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?"

They both knew sawing Yuka's arm off with nothing to clean the wound or even dress it, with less than a thimble-full of first aid knowledge between them, was not the best idea...but it was also the _only_ idea. Yuka looked at the hacksaw for a long moment, then nodded firmly.

"Alright," Jerome sighed, already feeling his strength waver. He motioned for Yuka to stand, and once he did, Jerome snatched the sheet from under the duvet. "The plan is to amputate just above your elbow then pack the wound as much as I can." He used Lauren's knife to start a tear then began ripping the thin fabric into long, wide strips. When a few long seconds had passed without a response, Jerome looked to Yuka apologetically. "Do you want to try something else?"

Yuka sank back onto the mattress, scrubbing at his face. "No," he replied softly. "But we might as well get this out of the way now…" he paused, scrutinizing Jerome with narrowed eyes. "My group is mostly just like your group, just like me. Normal people - _good_ people that got recruited and are just trying to survive." For a moment the only sound was the walker's eager pounding and the rhythmic tearing of the sheet as Jerome took in this information. "Some of them are assholes, I'll give you that. But most of them aren't. And there are children." Yuka emphasized the last part of his statement, correctly guessing he would strike a nerve.

"I'll try my best to make sure no one gets hurt," Jerome said earnestly, dropping the strips of sheet into a neat pile on the bed. "Trust me, that's the last thing I want." He strode across the room and grabbed a pen off the floor, then dug through the desk until he found a notepad. "Do you know what street we're on, Yuka?"

"East Fifth Avenue," Yuka answered, frowning dubiously. "Why?"

Jerome wrote down the address then tucked the note in his pocket. "A lot of good it's gonna do to save your life if you spend the rest of it trapped in this house," he said. "I'll make sure someone from your group knows where you are."

"Oh." The doubtful look on Yuka's face fell away in an instant. "Thank you, I hadn't even thought of that," he said. "You don't know this area very well, do you?" Jerome shook his head, making Yuka grimace. "That's going to make giving you directions pretty difficult, then."

"Just tell me as much as you can about where your group is," Jerome said, eager for any scrap of information he could get. "I'll figure it out."

Yuka pointed to his right. "Just keep going east once you get outside. My group is at Fairbanks City Hall. Big, gray building that kinda looks like a prison, twice the size of anything around it." He let his hand drop and went quiet for a moment. "It's damn near a straight shot from here. Just go left at the first turn you see, then right at the next turn, then straight. Got it so far?"

"I think so." Jerome nodded and scribbled onto a second note. He silently repeated the directions over and over, willing himself to not mess this up. "Anything else I should know?"

"There are people on guard duty so you're not going to get within a hundred feet of the building unnoticed while there's still daylight," Yuka said. "And most of the people inside are armed and are not gonna let you just walk in and get your family." His jaw clenched and worked furiously, like whatever he was about to say gave him great distress. "You'd be better off creating some kind of distraction and sneaking past them. Most of the guards keep watch out back."

Feeling like the air had been knocked out of him, Jerome deflated. He hadn't planned on waiting until morning to leave. No one had that much time. But once again being left without a choice, this time destined to wander the streets in the pitch black dark, left him worried and bitter. He heaved a heavy breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying and failing to keep his cynical thinking to a minimum. Before, everyone used to say he was the most optimistic person they'd ever met. He always had a glass half full attitude and a positive outlook in mind. That optimism had been fading bit by bit since the dead started walking, and Jerome was starting to think that his well had completely run dry. All he could think of any more were the negative outcomes, which, unfortunately, also seemed most likely.

"You need to lay on the floor." Jerome stepped forward and gathered his supplies. He had to keep moving or he was going to sit in the corner and give up. He tucked the sheet strips under his arm and gripped the hacksaw's blunt side with trembling fingers. Yuka sank to his knees in front of the desk, then maneuvered to lay flat on his back. One arm was held tightly to his side while the other, the one with the bite, was extended outward. Jerome stopped short at the sight of him, having to look away as his stomach tightened. He'd never guessed that morning that his day would entail sawing the arm off a stranger. Jerome set the supplies aside and crouched beside Yuka. "Hopefully this will help you not lose so much blood," he said. He slipped a long strip of sheet under Yuka's bicep and tied it as tightly as he could.

Yuka winced at the material squeezing against his bare skin. He took one look at the tourniquet then quickly redirected his gaze to the ceiling. "Hopefully," he agreed, his breaths coming in fast puffs.

"Okay," Jerome muttered, for no reason other than to hear something beside the walkers banging around downstairs. He gripped the hacksaw tightly in both hands and lined up the gleaming metal teeth just above the crook of Yuka's arm. He took a final glance at the younger man, unable to take the sheer terror written plainly across his paled face. "I'm gonna do it now," he said, clearing his throat. He pressed down against the saw and slid it back and forth, grinding a deep gash into Yuka's bicep. Yuka screeched and snatched his arm away. He curled into a ball and writhed around in the expanding pool of his own blood. Jerome had fallen backwards, his back pressed against the bed's footboard as he watched Yuka with round, panicked eyes.

"Go!" Yuka wailed and slammed himself onto his back. He threw his arm back out and, when Jerome hadn't moved, pinned him with a furious glare. "_Finish it_!"

He couldn't. This was too much. It was crazy, barbaric, _cruel_. Jerome could already see bone and ligament glistening within the gushing wound. All this agony and for what? Yuka wasn't thinking straight and Jerome couldn't help wondering if it would've been more humane to just...let him go peacefully. But that wasn't his decision. This crazy, cruel idea was the kid's only chance, and no matter how miniscule, everyone deserved that chance. Jerome was the only one who could make sure Yuka got his. Although everything in Jerome screamed to run as far away from this situation as he could, he crouched beside Yuka, using one hand to keep him in place. Jerome fought back a wave of nausea and dragged the saw to and fro, again and again, shredding tendons and muscles until he scraped bone. By now shock was settling in and Yuka's ear-splitting screams had lessened to senseless moans. Some of the biters had climbed the stairs and were now pounding the bedroom door.

Jerome swept a hand down his clammy face, clearing the sweat and blood splatters that had accumulated, and bore down on the saw, using all his weight to chip away at the bone. He reached the other side faster than he expected and sliced through the remaining flesh until Yuka's arm detached and thumped softly against the carpet. Yuka, panting and shaking and still mumbling incoherently, took one look at his severed arm and that was that. His eyes rolled back and he went completely limp. Jerome figured it was for the best. At least if he was unconscious, he wasn't in agony. Jerome quickly dropped the saw and ripped away the tourniquet. He wrapped the sheet strips around and around the stump, then wound duct tape around it in a thick shell. Blood had saturated the strips before he could blink and more dripped from the gaps in the tape. Jerome's hands were once again slick with muck, this time human. Knowing that somehow made it worse. He grimaced and wiped his hands on the bed, smearing the crisp white duvet with crimson.

By now, there were too many biters against the door for Jerome to go back downstairs. The chorus of rasping growls and slamming hands told him he couldn't even open the door and take them down one by one, as he had planned to. He was going to have to figure out a way down from a second story window without breaking his neck. Though Jerome wasn't thrilled by the idea, the only way he could see himself getting out the window was by rigging some kind of rope. He went through the bedroom and gathered all the remaining sheets and thin blankets he could, stripping the bed and then turning to the closet. He'd already looked while trying to find something decent to barricade the room and mostly found nothing but clothes, but now he thought they might come in handy. He pulled three long dresses from their hangers and tossed them on the bed.

Jerome joined the sheets, blankets, and sheets together with thick double and triple knots. The end result was a ridiculous, almost cartoonish excuse for a 'rope', a winding snake of cloth that could've stretched across the room and back. He checked the knots a second time and shook his head skeptically. Last time he knew he weighed a hundred and seventy-some pounds and the rope didn't look _that _strong. As long as it got him close enough to the ground where he could fall without breaking something, he supposed that would have to be enough.

He secured the rope inside the closet, tying it tightly to the clothing rod. Then, he moved to the window facing the backyard. The sun had nearly set by now, bathing the street in the pale purple-blue hue of dusk. Jerome yanked the curtains down and, to his surprise, saw fat, fluffy snowflakes coming down in droves. He pulled the window up and booted the screen out. Cold, crisp air flooded in, momentarily stealing Jerome's breath. He rubbed his hands together, warming them, and retrieved the other end of his rope. He tossed it out the window and pursed his lips. It only reached about halfway down the house, leaving six feet of open space to the ground. Sucking in a steadying breath, Jerome sat on the windowsill with one leg in, one leg out. He wrapped both hands around the rope, just above a large knot where he'd connected a dress and a blanket, then lowered himself out painstakingly slow.

His arms trembled with the effort of supporting his own weight, even after he'd braced his feet against the side of the house. The material sliding through his hands seemed to stretch more with every moment. Eager to reach the ground before it all fell apart, Jerome hurriedly rappelled down until his boots met the final knot. He wiggled down the last few feet then dropped to the ground. He landed on his feet but quickly toppled over, jarred by the landing.

Just as he stood, a walker rounded the corner of the house and came nose to nose with Jerome. His breath caught in his throat. The walker's milky blue eyes held his gaze for a split second, then it continued staggering across the lawn. Stunned and shaken, Jerome slumped against the house, blinking after the walker in shock. There were no 'rules' in the apocalypse, but he couldn't see any reason why he hadn't just been devoured. Then, he saw it - or rather, smelled it - his clothes and skin were still covered with walker muck from where he and Yuka cleared a path to the house. From head to toe, he was caked with brown, coagulated blood, grayed brain matter, and who knew what else. He definitely smelled like one of them, and apparently that was enough for a biter to decide he wasn't worth eating.

Suddenly, Jerome didn't mind being covered in filth. He was grateful for it. He pulled the note from his pocket and squinted at his scribbles. Between the dark, the shaking of his hands, and the snowflakes saturating the paper, it wasn't easy. Finally, he read, _left at the first turn, right at the next turn, then straight. _Jerome tucked the note away and kept a hand on the hammer hanging on his belt loop, just in case the walkers decided he didn't smell too bad after all.

He traveled through the backyard and onto the street, stepping as carefully as he could to muffle his steps. Most of the walkers still milled around the front yard, and he was glad to leave them behind. He went up the road as fast as he could without drawing attention. His eyes darted around every few seconds, expecting walkers to appear anywhere, and they soon did. They lingered in the darkened corners of yards and side streets, but they paid little mind to Jerome. He turned left and then right, and once he was onto the long street where he was just supposed to go straight, all he could do was pray he was on track.

Soon enough, a building two or three stories higher than any of the others around it loomed ahead.

* * *

**A/N: It's about to get real, y'all...the next chapter will be the finale! I'M SO PUMPED! This has been over two years in the making and I think you guys will really enjoy it. Everything comes together and I'll get to write so much stuff that I've wanted to since I started this in 2018. It's going to be a longer chapter for sure. I'll talk a little more about future plans for this story there. In the meantime, I'd really love to hear your feedback! :)**


	17. Seventeen: When the Night is Over

Freshly fallen snow crushed softly under Jerome's boots. There were no biters, wind, or wildlife, leaving the street in a still silence. Jerome crouched low as he moved across the front lawn of the City Hall, all too aware of the broad windows on the second and third floors. Someone could've easily spotted him already. He kept to the shadows as best as he could, darting behind half walls and withered bushes until he reached the building's stone exterior.

He pressed his back against the wall and took a moment to rest. Each intake of breath seared his lungs with painfully cold air, and each exhale produced a little cloud before his chattering teeth. The temperature had plummeted since the sun set, and Jerome wished Lauren had taken his coat. Up on that roof, she herself had probably turned to ice by now. He briefly closed his eyes, bracing himself for whatever came next, and continued along the wall towards the back of the building, where Yuka had mentioned most of the guards kept watch.

Sure enough, as Jerome neared the corner, low voices drifted from somewhere nearby. There was a large parking lot before him, surrounded by a chain link fence. Several large trucks and a cylindrical fuel tank prevented him from seeing much else, but he did spot a familiar shape at the opposite end of the lot - Brandon's short bus. Jerome's pulse began to race a little faster. His family _had_ to be inside, and in order to figure out how to get to them, he needed a better view.

Whoever was talking was far enough away that Jerome couldn't make out any words, and he prayed their conversation was riveting enough he could sneak to the other side undetected. He took a moment to make sure the voices weren't coming any closer, then made a run for the bus, using the trucks for cover. He halted so suddenly once he was hidden from view behind the bus that he nearly toppled forward. Something metallic clattered at his feet, freezing him in place. He didn't dare even breathe, half expecting the guards to come running. But their faint conversation didn't miss a beat, and as the seconds dragged on, Jerome began to relax. He finally looked down, and saw his lighter had fallen out of his pocket.

Jerome snatched it up off the asphalt and shook his head - he should've never started smoking again. He leaned forward to peer around the back of the bus, gripping the bumper with dirty hands.

A fire burned low in a barrel, casting an orange glow on the cracked, faded concrete where the warmth had melted the snow. Two men, bundled up in coats overtop camouflage uniforms, stood before a set of glass double doors. Rifles hung from their backs. Jerome was sure there were many more people and guns inside, all ready to do whatever they had to in order to keep him away. Or maybe they'd just hold him hostage. Either scenario ended with him in a position where he couldn't help his group, and he couldn't let that happen. He might've been their only hope, and that was a pressure that weighed so heavily on his shoulders, it was nearly crushing him. He couldn't let them down.

But what could he do?

Yuka's words rang in his ears. _You'd be better off creating some kind of distraction and sneaking past them. _

Jerome's searching gaze landed on the fuel tank. It was the kind that probably held a few thousand gallons, long and round. Dark lettering on the side read **GASOLINE, FLAMMABLE, NO SMOKING**. He pulled the lighter from his pocket and stared at it for a long moment. This wasn't a situation where a simple brick through a window would keep the guards busy. He needed something that would consume their attention long enough for him to find the others and get the upper hand. An explosion would certainly do the trick, but was it worth it? He would definitely draw biters, potentially damage the building, maybe even render the vehicles useless...but he didn't see any other way.

Jerome whispered, "Holy shit, okay," and got out his knife. A sickening ache spasmed in his gut. In just a few minutes, there would be no going back. He swiftly moved to the fuel tanker while the guards were still wrapped up in their own chat, and brought the knife down hard. The blade made a high-pitched clang as it pierced through the aluminum, creating a narrow notch near the bottom of the tank. Gasoline immediately poured out and turned the thin layer of snow to yellow slush.

One of the guards said, "Wait, did you hear that?"

Jerome took a few steps back, edging his way towards the side of the building. He managed to flick the lighter and light a cigarette despite the trembling of his fingers.

In a terrible twist of fate, Jerome tossed his cigarette into the ever-expanding pool of gas just as the guards jogged past the corner of the building to investigate. The ground went up in a swarm of angry orange flames. The tank immediately followed, blowing apart in a roar of fire and smoke that swallowed the two men. Their agonized, panicked screams were audible even over the booming, crackling blaze. They stumbled around and around in the parking lot, limbs flailing, desperately trying - and failing - to escape the flames. Everything from their clothes to their hair was alight with fuel-rich fire, and it was mere seconds before they collapsed to the cement in smoldering heaps of melted flesh.

For Jerome, everything else fell away. The blast had left him on his backside, half laying against the City Hall. He stared at the two men, dead because of him, with wide eyes. He choked on every smoke-filled breath as horror clutched at his throat. "Oh God," he said, burying his face in his hands. "Oh God, _no_." The heat of the ever-raging inferno stung every bit of his exposed skin and his ears still rang. He'd wanted to warn the men, tell them to run, but he hadn't had any time.

Someone screamed, "What the fuck!?"

Another two guards charged out the double doors and around the building with their guns drawn. They ran right past Jerome and shrank back against the fire. At the sight of their dead colleagues, they stumbled to a stop, their jaws dropping. One of them, a tall man with sandy hair and a bruised face, doubled over and vomited. "How did this happen?" The second man questioned in a wavering voice, turning his round eyes up to the swirling flames and black smoke.

Jerome shakily got to his feet. It was over. He'd blown his chance to help his group. Whatever they wanted to do to him, he deserved it, and he was ready to give in. He couldn't handle any more. "I'm so sorry," he said, stepping out of the shadows. "I had to...I had to...I'm so sorry."

The men whirled around with their guns drawn. The one with the bruised face questioned, "What did you say?"

"I-I'm sorry," Jerome gasped out around a sob. "I never meant for this to happen."

He dropped his rifle, allowing it to swing freely at his side by the shoulder strap, and stomped towards Jerome. There was a crazed urgency in his eyes that rendered Jerome unable to move, unable to breathe. The man grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed him against the building. "Repeat _exactly_ what you said," he ordered through grit teeth.

"I'm so sorry," Jerome said, gulping anxiously. He didn't understand why he seemed angrier by what he said than the two men he'd killed. "I had to."

The man blinked. They stood almost nose to nose. "That accent," he said slowly. "I know I've heard it before." He paused, and Jerome could practically see the gears turning in his head before a broad, knowing grin spread across his face. "You were at Fort McAdams, weren't you?"

Jerome stared back at him. That wasn't the smile of an old friend, someone that was happy to see him. It reminded him more of a shark. Cold and frightening. And the strange, dark look in his eyes matched. Time seemed to stand still as the puzzle pieces fell into place. There was only one other time Jerome had ever uttered those words, and uttered them in such despair. At Fort McAdams, of course, when he stabbed a man to escape the ruins of a burning, biter-filled hell. He'd always assumed he'd killed him, but now he had to assume that was who was standing in front of him.

After a painfully long moment where it seemed his voice wasn't going to work, Jerome answered, "Yeah, I was there."

"Huh," the man said, strangely monotone. The hands clutching Jerome's jacket began to shake. His eyes chilled Jerome to the bone. They were the eyes of a savage, a wild man, a vibrant shade of blue that was void of any soul. He tipped his head and asked, "Did you have a knife?"

Jerome planted his hands against his chest and hurled him away. He ran past the fuel tank blaze, the heat pricking at his face, and headed towards the bus. Gunshots boomed, bullets whirring past him to ping off the surrounding vehicles.

The man hollered, "You had a knife then, but I've got a gun now, buddy!"

Jerome threw himself to the ground behind the bus and clutched his knife to his chest. He was sure he was going to die, and found he no longer wanted to. Not like this.

"Christ!" The second man exclaimed. "Lancaster, what the hell is going on?"

"Don't worry about it, Davis," Lancaster snapped. "This one's mine. And that's _Captain_ Lancaster to you."

Gunfire rained over the bus, shattering the windows and slicing through the sides like a hot knife through butter. Jerome scrambled back and forth, trying to predict where Lancaster was aiming, and managed to make it through unscathed. The gunfire stopped, and Lancaster's heavy footfalls rapidly drew near. Jerome shot to his feet and backed towards the front of the bus. His empty gun pressed hard at his waist, and he desperately wished he could've willed even one bullet into the chamber.

"This is a short bus and there's an armed man at either side," Lancaster said, coming around the bumper to join Jerome. He had his rifle tucked against his shoulder and aimed at Jerome's chest. "How do you think this is going to end?"

"Please don't," Jerome begged. "I-I never meant for anybody to get hurt. I just wanted to find my family."

"Ah, yes." Lancaster nodded. "My Sergeant told me we have other Fort survivors inside. I'm guessing they're your family, the brunette lady and the little girl?" Jerome didn't respond right away. Something told him it would be a bad idea, but after a moment, he nodded. Lancaster scoffed and said, "Well, trust me, you'll all be together again _very_ soon."

A single shot rang out from behind Jerome. Davis cried out and dropped to the ground beside the burnt remains of his colleagues. He wheezed and gurgled blood as a crimson spot blossomed on his abdomen. Jerome whirled around to see who had fired, and found Clarence standing just outside the set of double doors, rifle in hand.

He yelled, "Jerome, get down!"

Jerome ducked and two shots were fired almost at the same time. Clarence hollered and dropped to his knees. While Lancaster was aiming for the killshot, Jerome lunged forward and tackled him around the waist. The rifle fell from his hands and clattered on the concrete below. Jerome raised his knife, ready to stab him in the gut for a second time, but Lancaster swung his arm out and sent the blade skittering through the snow.

"Once wasn't enough?" Lancaster sneered, delivering an uppercut so vicious it sent Jerome flying backwards. He slammed against the ground, in a daze from the sharp, pounding pain in his jaw. Lancaster hurriedly stomped over and kicked him hard in the gut. Jerome groaned and fought the urge to bring his knees up to his chest. Instead, as Lancaster loomed over him, he swung his feet out and swept the Captain's legs out from under him.

Lancaster grunted as he fell gracelessly to the ground. Jerome said, "It doesn't have to be like this."

"You are _everything_ that is wrong with this world," Lancaster shouted, spit flying from his mouth. "And when the night is over, _I_ will still be the one who has to make things right!" He raised his rifle again. Jerome shoved the muzzle downwards and managed to snatch the strap off Lancaster's shoulder, freeing the gun. In a split second, Lancaster was back on his feet, and smacked it from Jerome's hands. Jerome booted it across the parking lot before he could get it back. Lancaster gave a furious yell and punched Jerome hard in the throat, leaving him wheezing and hacking.

Lancaster turned and stormed after his gun. Jerome hobbled after him. When Lancaster bent down, Jerome sprang at his back and pinned him against the parking lot. Lancaster made a guttural sound of pain and flipped over to face him. He moved to punch Jerome in the stomach, but Jerome blocked the blow with his forearm and straddled the Captain's waist.

Before Lancaster had a chance to do anything else, Jerome wrapped his hands around his throat and squeezed, hard. Lancaster's eyes bulged. His skin rapidly turned purple beneath the bruises. Jerome stared straight ahead at the billowing plumes of black smoke, refusing to meet his gaze. Lancaster weakly smacked at Jerome's arms and his legs kicked around like a dying cricket's. Flesh and tendons grew taut under Jerome's fingers, pushing against Lancaster's windpipe. His breathing was beginning to sound crackly and feeble. Jerome finally dared to look down. The Captain stared back at him, terror apparent in his ever wild eyes.

"It didn't have to be like this," Jerome repeated. Sorrow rose from somewhere deep inside him as he knew, distantly in the back of his reeling mind, there was no going back. This night, this moment, would be with him forever. No matter what happened, whether the world went back to normal or got even worse, Jerome was always going to carry the weight of taking another man's life with his bare hands. Tears stung his eyes and leaked out the corners, hot against his cheeks.

He grit his teeth, braced his feet against the slick, snowy cement, and bore his weight down on Lancaster's throat. What air he had left blew out in a brief, moaning rasp. There was a wet crushing sound that made Jerome's chest constrict. Lancaster's struggles gradually grew weaker and then stopped altogether. The fire was mirrored in his blank stare and his mouth hung open. Jerome slowly sank back, uncurling his aching hands.

"Damn, French," said a familiar, feminine voice. "I didn't know you had it in you." Jerome frowned and peered over his shoulder to see none other than Carmen Woods limp out of the shadows on the other side of the chain link fence.

"Yeah, thanks for the help," he said darkly, too stunned to ask any questions. It was as if fog had been pumped into his head. Nothing made sense. He couldn't believe any of it was real.

She smirked. "Well, here's a tip - you might want to take care of them," she said, pointing somewhere behind him.

Jerome stood and discovered that the two men he'd inadvertently burned to death had turned. One was already starting towards him, and the other had just begun to stir. They both looked like something out of a nightmare - charred, black skin, melted eyeballs sunken deep in their sockets, gnarled burnt claws for hands. And the smell...Jerome didn't think biters could smell any worse, but these two had a uniquely foul stench that only increased the more they moved.

"I'm sorry," whispered again. He pulled the rifle out from under Lancaster's limp body and put them both down, then did the same to Davis, and finally Lancaster himself. He'd never even fired a rifle before. The shots pounded his ears, but he figured it didn't matter anymore.

And then, out of nowhere, a jolting realization sliced through his mental fog, and he remembered Clarence.

He ran towards the back of the building without a second thought, around pieces of the exploded fuel tank, towards Clarence's still, curled form. His face held a myriad of dark bruises and his nose appeared to have been busted. There was a large sprawl of blood on his chest surrounding a small hole. More blood had puddled around him on the ground. At first Jerome thought he was dead, but then he noted the slight rise and fall of his chest.

"Clarence?" Jerome questioned, leaning down and shaking him.

The older man's eyes slowly fluttered open. He coughed and blood gurgled past his lips. "You...helped me escape," he rasped, his voice so weak Jerome had to crane his head down to hear him. "That big boom...got all their attention."

Jerome wasn't sure exactly he was talking about, but he nodded along anyway. "You saved me," he said, glancing at the bullet wound guiltily. By now, it was clear even for Jerome to see there would be no saving him. He'd already lost too much blood, and a bullet to the chest had to have done some severe damage. But Jerome had to wonder, if maybe he'd gotten to him faster...

"Well…" Clarence let out a wheezing, rattling hack. "At least...l'll die a free man."

Jerome winced and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Is your family inside?"

Clarence gave a barely perceptible nod. "Please...g-get them away from here."

"I will," Jerome said.

"Y-you better hurry," he advised. "There'll be more comin'."

Jerome's chest swelled with determination. He'd come there in the first place to find his own family, and he was damn well going to do it. He was going to get them all out, and there would be no more death.

The fence rattled as Carmen laboriously climbed to the top, mostly using only her right leg, and dropped onto the other side. She limped around the bus towards the two of them. "I'm with you," she told Jerome, gently pulling the rifle from Clarence's limp hand. "My brother and nephew are in there and I'm not leaving without them."

Jerome wasn't sure how she knew that, or where she'd been for the past couple weeks, and there wasn't time to ask. A guilty pang pierced his heart as he realized she still had no idea her brother had been bitten, and he wasn't about to tell her - he needed her help, and she had to be thinking straight. "Let's be as quiet as we can," he said. He took one last look at Clarence, whose chest no longer moved, and started towards the doors.

He and Carmen entered the City Hall side by side. They stood in a darkened foyer that, oddly enough, smelled of soap and disinfectant. A small lantern sat on the desk, producing a white hue. Voices drifted down the stairs.

"I know what he said, but we've waited long enough," said the voice of a sheepish woman.

A man firmly replied, "There are four of them out there, whatever's going on, they can handle it."

"You might be scared, but I'm not," the woman said, but her tone had an unconvincing waver.

"Look, even the Captain's pet has to follow his orders," the man sneered. "Know your place."

There was a pause, then she said, "Screw you, Hill."

More than one set of heavy footsteps started down the stairs. Jerome and Carmen fled to the back of the foyer and slid in the shadows of an empty snack machine opposite the staircase. A young woman with her hair pulled back in a bouncing ponytail raced past the desk and outside. Two men followed her, one dressed in civilian clothes and the other in a camouflage uniform.

The uniformed man snapped, "Get back here, you dumb bitch," as the doors swung shut behind him.

Jerome stared after them. There was something familiar about the woman, but Carmen elbowed him before he had time to think why.

He nodded to her, and they wordlessly started for the stairs.

* * *

Rachel stood with her face pressed up to the boarded up windows of the room that had become her prison cell, trying desperately to see out. All she'd caught since the explosion rocked the building was the occasional flash of orange, and she'd heard a lot of screaming and gunfire. Aside from that, there had been no clues as to what was going on outside. She had an overwhelming feeling that whatever was happening, it went beyond walkers. Every muscle in her body was on high alert, tense and ready to spring into action. She still couldn't believe how they'd ended up in such a situation. No weapons, no way out, no hope. They were completely at the mercy of malicious, greedy people who shot on sight.

Any hopes of resting had vanished long ago, so Rachel wasn't surprised when she turned and found all three kids sitting up, awake, tears in their eyes. She crossed her arms tightly over her midsection. It sent a warm wave of fury through her to see them so scared. All of their fathers had been ripped away from them, and now here they were fearing for their own lives.

Ben sat far from all the others, even Marvin, with his head resting against the wall. His eyes were closed, but Rachel knew he wasn't asleep. There was a gash on his chin and a scrape on his arm from where Lancaster had thrust him back into the room earlier, so forcefully he had no way of catching himself and crashed into the floor. She still didn't know what he'd done to piss the Captain off; he hadn't even said what he wanted him for in the first place.

Footsteps rapidly approached the door. Rachel bolted across the room and sank down in front of Adrian and Emma. She had no idea what to expect, and if anyone wanted to get to them, they were going to have to go through her first. Keisha did the same with Aaliyah, guiding the wide-eyed little girl behind her back. She and Rachel shared a knowing look. They may never have been close when they were at Red Fox Creek together, and they had little in common besides motherhood, but that was enough. Whatever came next, the children came first.

The doors swung open and revealed two people, a man and a woman. At first, Rachel hardly recognized them, but there was something familiar about the man that kept her attention on him. A rifle was slung over his back. He was covered in blood, both fresh and dried, and one side of his jaw was red and puffy. But the smile that lit up his face when their gazes met said it all.

"Papa!" Emma tore away from her mother and ran to him. Jerome swept her up with one arm and extended the other to Rachel. As her shock melted away, she was across the room in two seconds flat and melted into his embrace. So many unanswered questions fired rapidly through her brain, but she didn't have the presence of mind to vocalize them. Deep down, she thought she'd never see him again. But there he was, looking down at her and their daughter with so much relief it was nearly palpable in the air. Death and smoke clung to him like a second skin, but she didn't care one bit.

Ben had shot to his feet when the doors opened and stood slack jawed, his round gaze bouncing from Jerome to Carmen. He started to say something, but his voice was drowned out by the others' rapid questions.

"How in the world - " Marvin began, shaking his head.

Peggy asked, "Where's Lauren?"

"What's going on?" Keisha asked. "What was that boom?"

Rachel's delirious glee at seeing Jerome had momentarily blinded her to Carmen's presence. She was promptly brought back to reality as Adrian ran across the room, weeping, and threw his arms around his aunt. He cried, "They killed daddy!"

A hush immediately swept over the group, extinguishing any remaining words that may have been burning on their tongues. Carmen stiffened and her gark gaze swept over the group, as if she expected one of them to be the culprit. "What?"

Ben sighed and reluctantly explained, "Your brother...he was bit. One of the guys here finished him off."

Carmen's face hardened. She gently guided Adrian off of her and brought her gun around, held low. She asked, "What did he look like?" No one gave her an answer. They all exchanged similar glances of reluctance, nobody wanting to be the one that sent her off a rampage. She shrugged and began to leave. "Nevermind. I'll just take out every last fucking one."

"Don't," Jerome said firmly. "Adrian needs you."

Adrian stood wringing his hands, staring after her sadly. Carmen hesitated a moment longer then finally stepped back into the room, her shoulders slumped. "Alright," she sighed, patting her nephew on the head. "I'm not going anywhere," she said, speaking with great regret.

Jerome looked to Ben and said, "I'll explain the rest later, we've got to leave _now_. They're gonna be up here any minute."

Keisha said, "Please, you have to help me find Clarence. That Captain Lancaster took him off somewhere and I haven't seen him for days."

Jerome hung his head and took a deep breath. He pulled away from his wife and daughter and moved to stand right before Keisha and Aaliyah. Keisha's face fell, sensing that something was wrong. Jerome cleared his throat and said, "Clarence...he broke out after that explosion distracted all the guards. Lancaster shot him and he...passed." Keisha's face contorted horribly with despair. Her legs began to fold and Jerome caught her by the arms. Deep, mournful wails tore out from deep within her. "I can't tell you how sorry I am," Jerome said, his voice strained. "He saved me, he shot one of them. And he asked me to get you out, so that's what I'm going to do."

"_No, no, no_," Keisha wailed incoherently, sinking to her knees. Aaliyah's cries came more high-pitched. She dropped down beside her mother and buried her face against her.

Jerome stared at the two of them helplessly, then looked to Rachel. "We've really got to go..."

Rachel hurried over and gently took Keisha by the elbow. "Come on," she urged, not sure the older woman could even hear her. "You know the last thing he would ever want is for something to happen to you two."

Keisha continued to sob, but after a moment, she shakily stood back up. She took Aaliyah by the hand and kissed her on the cheek. "We've got to go, baby," she croaked, hiccupping and gasping all the while.

Rachel heard a stampede of people tearing up the stairs. Samantha, Sergeant Hill, and Keith stormed down the hallway towards them, all wielding guns. Jerome spun around and raised the rifle that had been hanging from his back. Carmen did the same. Rachel stared at her husband in shock. She never thought she'd see the day he aimed a gun at another human being with no hesitation.

As soon as Samantha laid eyes on Carmen, she shrieked. She stopped dead in the middle of the hallway and pointed her pistol at her. "You! You bitch! You left me for dead!"

Carmen calmly stared down the sights of her rifle. "Seems like you've done pretty well for yourself."

"And _you_," Samantha screamed, turning to Jerome. Her hand shook so severely, Rachel was surprised she could even keep a grip on the gun. "You did this, didn't you? Neither of you are supposed to be here and now you've ruined _everything_!"

Sergeant Hill yelled back at her, "Would you shut the fuck up already?"

Keith shoved his way in front of them and snapped, "Enough, both of you. It's done."

Samantha broke down sobbing. "It's n-not done until th-they pay," she blubbered, hardly clear enough to understand. "S-she left me for dead and now they've ruined the l-last thing that had any h-hope any of us h-had." Snot and tears dripped down her face. She stomped towards Jerome. He slowly lowered his gun, but she didn't stop until her pistol was pressed against his chest.

He looked down at her with rounded eyes, not daring to move a muscle. "He's right, it's done. This isn't going to change anything."

"It's _done_?" She laughed and it was a harsh, feral sound. "No, this is just the beginning, Jerome. The Captain's dead and this place is over, but what's happening out there is just a taste of what's to come." She shook her head and gasped out a wet sob. "And I'm not made for it. I know I'm not. And because of _you_, now I've got nothing left."

She moved the gun towards her own head. Nearly everyone in the room cried out pleas to stop, except Carmen and Peggy - and if Rachel was being honest with herself, she only did because she didn't want the kids to witness any more than they already had.

Samantha froze. Her whole body shook with the force of her weeping. Ben slowly pushed himself between her and Jerome and held his hand out expectantly, nodding to the pistol. "This isn't how we move forward," he said. "Maybe you're right and this was the last stand of what we knew, but we can still make things better for ourselves."

She sniffled. "How? You have no idea what I've been through, how I barely survived after that bitch left me for dead." She glared at Carmen, who still stood with her rifle pinned firmly on Samantha. "It was p-pure luck, like winning the lottery. The Captain took me in, he proved there was something left worth fighting for, worth living for, and now…" she trailed off and continued to cry, letting her arms hang limply by her sides. Ben gingerly crept forward and pulled the pistol from her hand, and she let him.

Sergeant Hill, who'd been silently standing in the doorway watching, snickered and shook his head. "This is real cute and all," he said, "But _I_ for one am still pissed and believe somebody here needs to pay."

Keith quietly said, "Look at them, Sergeant. They already have." His brows furrowed as he took in the broken group - grieving wife and daughter, heartbroken little boy, man with a swollen jaw and a faraway look in his eyes. "Give it up already. We're all that's left," he went on. "Lancaster, Arnold, Davis, Mayer, Koneak...they're all gone."

Jerome's head whipped towards Keith. "Actually, I found your man Koneak," he said. "He was bitten and had me amputate his arm. He's in a house back on East Fifth Avenue and didn't look great when I left, but...I did the best I could. He might still be alive."

The Sergeant seemed stunned for a moment, then scoffed. "Well, good for you, but we've got enough to deal with here."

"You mean you're not going to go get him?" Jerome frowned.

"The last thing we need right now is a one-armed drain on our resources," Sergeant Hill replied.

Keith turned his firm gaze on the Sergeant and said, "What do you say? Let's set these folks free and focus on doing what we can to keep this place afloat through the night." He paused as Hill appeared to be thinking it over, then added, "It's on us to protect and provide for these poor people we roped into this pipedream."

Sergeant Hill shifted from foot to foot, like he was itching for a fight. After a moment, he fully relaxed and pointed his gun towards the floor. "Ah, hell," he grumbled. "Go on and go. It'd just make more of a mess if I dealt with you, anyway."

Rachel almost collapsed with relief. She squeezed Emma against her side and smiled as everyone started for the door.

"Wait," Keith said. He rooted around in the pocket of his khaki pants, then brought up a large key ring. "Let's see, Buick and bus...there's a blue pickup that belongs to you all too, right?"

"My truck?" Peggy questioned, looking to Samantha for confirmation.

The defeated girl nodded, staring at the floor. "We'd found a lot of good stuff before everything happened, so they went back for it."

Peggy chuckled. "I'll be damned." Keith slid a key off the ring and tossed it to her, then removed two more and handed them to Ben. Peggy demanded, "Well, what about all of our supplies?"

Sergeant Hill quietly answered, "Not all of it was even brought in yet, but what was is downstairs in our supply room."

"Everyone wait for us downstairs," Ben said, then he pointed to Rachel. "You, dad, and Jerome can come help grab what you can."

Jerome hummed a noise of disagreement and said, "I think I should make sure it's all clear outside first."

Ben hesitated, then shrugged. "Okay."

"Come on." Keith motioned for the rest of them to follow him. "I'll lead the way."

* * *

As Jerome feared, he hurried past the others and through the foyer to find Clarence had already turned. Jerome slowed as he went outside, back into the biting arctic air. The mountain of a man trudged across the parking lot with the sort of uncoordinated trudge only a biter could manage, leaving a long trail of scuffs in the snow behind him.

Jerome hung back by the doors, trying to come up with a way to take care of Clarence before Keisha and Aaliyah saw him. Clarence was too big for him to easily pin down and get with his knife, but firing his gun would be too obvious and probably garner unwanted attention. He observed him for a minute, breathing hard. Clarence still hadn't noticed him. He staggered towards the fire, growling softly. Jerome glanced behind him, back into the foyer, and saw the others were already descending the stairs. He cursed under his breath then started forward, sticking close to the building. He stepped lightly and followed Clarence at a distance, then reached for his knife...and his fingers found nothing but his own hip.

For a heartbeat, Jerome was very confused, then he remembered his knife was still laying on the other side of the parking lot. He exhaled heavily, wondering if _anything_ was ever going to be simple again, and brought his gun up instead. He quickly found the back of Clarence's head in his sites and pulled the trigger, before he lost his nerve. Jerome flinched as Clarence's head burst apart. It made him sick to his stomach in a way that he could just barely suppress. He'd never actually seen anyone he knew reanimated before, let alone had to kill them.

He shook his head, trying his best to not become too lost in his thoughts, and jogged over to where Clarence's body had dropped, close to the flames. Jerome grabbed him under the arms and tried to drag him backwards. His vision began to darken at the edges with the effort, and he'd hardly moved Clarence a foot. "Shit, you're heavy," Jerome grunted under his breath.

The only way he managed to make any progress was by throwing his weight back and heaving Clarence's body along with him. He got Clarence behind a nearby truck, and that was enough for him - as long as his wife and daughter didn't have to see him, that was what mattered.

Jerome fully stood, his back twinging after being hunched over and under pressure for so long, and wiped his hands on his pants. It killed him to know Clarence and Brandon neither one would have proper burials. The smiling face of Brandon, the young man who'd driven directly into a disaster zone full of walkers to save strangers and had always been willing to lend a helping hand, lingered in the forefront of Jerome's mind. The news that he'd been 'finished off' had hit him hard, but he hadn't been able to show it, or even really recognize what it meant. With the kids present and Carmen ready to go off slaughtering anyone she saw, he felt like he had to be a voice of reason, present calmness. Inside him, however, was a torrent of grief and shock and anger.

He had just started to head back when movement caught his eye. There behind the truck, partially concealed from the overwhelming brightness of the fuel fire, he could see past the lawn of the City Hall. Many shapes moved in the dark as one, an endless wave of rippling shadows. The moon's soft glow blanketed another wave to the left. Their quiet rasps sang a haunting chorus as they approached. Dozens of dead eyes stared back at Jerome.

"Oh no," he breathed. His heart pounded faster and faster within his increasingly tight chest. He stumbled a few steps backwards, then bolted towards the foyer.

* * *

Keith swiftly unlocked a room at the back of the foyer and stood aside to allow Ben, Marvin, and Rachel in. Tables covered in all types of useful items lined either wall. Guns, knives, flashlights, food, medicine - everything that was worth more than gold in a world crawling with the living dead, there for the taking. All of Ben's attention was consumed by the things before him, like a starving dog who'd spotted a rabbit. He'd have given anything to take every bit of it.

"So, where do we start?" Rachel asked, her wide eyes sweeping over the room.

"Uh…" Ben cleared his throat. "Just start taking the stuff you know is ours, I guess." Some of the tubs that had been on the bus were just inside the room. They hadn't even been unpacked yet. He pointed towards them and said, "Dad, go ahead and slide those out into the foyer."

Marvin placed one tub atop another and dragged them out past the threshold. Keith moved as he passed, the lantern in his hand swaying and twisting the dim light on the wall. "Some of this was in the truck Samantha left behind," he said. "You might as well grab some extras. They were meant for your people."

A gunshot sounded outside and Ben was abruptly brought back to reality. They needed to leave, and fast, before anything else escalated or more people died. He grabbed a nearby duffel bag and got to work quickly sorting through the closest table.

A clothing rack stood between two of the tables, mostly containing coats and jackets. Several pairs of shoes and boots sat on the floor below. Rachel went over and began hastily browsing through the clothes. "I have to know," she began, peering over her shoulder at Keith, "What the hell happened to Fort McAdams?"

Keith was quiet for so long, Ben didn't think he was going to answer. Then, finally, he said, "Lancaster and some of the other men tried to take the Fort from the civilians. They did not succeed. Everyone lost."

Nobody had much to say after that. Once Marvin returned, the three of them combined their efforts and swept through the room, snatching up everything they thought they'd be allowed to take. Despite the horrors of the day, the weight of the bag in Ben's hand brought a smile to his face. Now they would have a decent shot of making it.

Ben started out into the foyer, where the others stood huddled by the staircase. Their mouths fell open at the sight of all the things he, Rachel, and Marvin carried.

Courtney hesitantly asked, "We can really have all that?"

"That's what the man said," Marvin replied, a loaded backpack slung over his shoulder.

Keith shrugged. "It's a lot more than we could use right now. You need it more than we do."

The front doors flew open with a bang as Jerome barrelled inside. As he clutched his chest, fighting to catch his breath, he wheezed, "B-biters...they're coming."

Ben's brief moment of joy fell away in an instant. "How many?"

"A lot," Jerome answered. "Forty, maybe more. And they're close."

"Shit." Ben shook his head. To no one in particular, he ordered, "Alright, let's go. Grab what you can here and head straight for the vehicles."

Peggy grabbed Courtney by the sleeve and said, "We'll follow in the truck."

"Alright." Ben nodded and headed for the doors.

"Wait!" Keith caught him by the arm and said, "Take the north exits. I know they're out of your way, but we mainly blocked the southern and eastern roads. Find a clear north exit and you'll be good to go."

"Thank you," Ben said, then briskly started out across the parking lot. He squinted at the dancing flames that cut through the night sky, and the two scorched bodies nearby. "What the hell happened out here?"

Jerome hurried alongside him, struggling to keep up. "I'll explain it all later," he said. "Right now, I need to take the car and go get Lauren." At the mention of their missing member, those within earshot smiled and voiced their pleasure at the news that she was alive.

"So, she didn't get hit too bad?" Marvin asked, keeping pace on Ben's other side.

Rachel frowned and adjusted the stack of boxes in her arms. "Where is she?"

"Her wound didn't look great," Jerome answered quietly. "I had to leave her to get here, but she seemed alright when I left."

As they reached the bus, Ben stopped at the front and set his bag down by the wheel. Rachel, Marvin, Keisha, Aaliyah went past him and hurried onto the bus. He watched thoughtfully as Rachel pushed through the remaining supplies between the seats to open the back door, allowing those still outside to hand their bags and tubs up to her and run back to the foyer to grab more.

Just past the tall chain link fence that surrounded the parking lot, Ben could see the shambling, dark figures of walkers drawing near. He turned back to Jerome, who was staring expectantly at him. Emma was glued to his hip now, her slender arms wrapped around his waist.

The thought of Jerome going out there alone, again, so soon after he'd barely survived being shot at and left behind, didn't sit well with Ben. Before he could say anything, however, Jerome beat him to it. "There's someone else I have to pick up too," he said quietly.

"What?" Ben blinked at him, wracking his brain to figure out who else was missing. Then the answer came to him like a smack to the head, and his shoulders slumped. "It's that Koneak guy, isn't it? Oh, Jerome…"

Jerome turned his eyes to the ground and opened his mouth to reply, but Samantha came bustling over and cut him off. "Can I come with you?" she asked meekly. Her eyes were still puffy and bloodshot, and she barely even glanced at Ben. "This place is nothing without the Captain." Ben snorted and crossed his arms. His first instinct was to send her packing. After the way she'd melted down, he wasn't eager to have someone that unstable around. His decision was almost made for him as Carmen walked around them, hand in hand with Adrian, and started onto the bus. Samantha's face went ghostly white, and her mouth dropped open. "Oh," she said snidely. "_She _is going with you?"

"I guess so," Ben said, picking his duffel up and following Carmen. He hadn't thought much about it, but if she wanted to come along, he couldn't turn her away. After what happened to Brandon, he owed it to him to help keep an eye on his son, and if that meant his crazy sister had to come along too, he supposed that was just something he'd have to deal with. Especially after Brandon had told him in the first place he believed his sister was still out there, and Ben refused to let him look for her...it was all too much to ignore.

Samantha was right on his heels, half stumbling up the steps. "She left me behind," she repeated, her voice rising. "She's a traitor. Do you really want someone like that around?"

"Not really," Ben replied, slamming his bag down at the back of the bus and whirling to face her. "I don't want nutso crybabies who pressed a gun to my best friend's chest around either, but that's where we are. We're in this shit together now. So if you can suck it up and handle being with her on this bus, you can ride along." He paused, staring firmly into her rounded, teary eyes. "But that's all you're getting - a ride. Once we get to Anchorage, you're out on your ass."

Samantha's bottom lip quivered and she gulped. "Okay," she whispered.

"Does that go for us too?" Carmen questioned. By pure coincidence, she'd chosen the same seat her brother had spent the last hours of his life on. If Adrian was aware, he didn't show it, and sat tucked against her side with his head resting upon her shoulder.

Ben knew he probably should've cared more that she left Samantha behind, but the truth was he wasn't all that bothered by it. The two of them should never have been on a run together anyway, and after seeing how Samantha was when she was scared, he had to admit he probably would've considered the same himself. Carmen had a temper and may not have been a very pleasant person to be around, but she was a survivor, and that was what they all needed more of. "No," he finally answered, nodding to Carmen. "If you want to stick around, you can."

Jerome poked his head inside. "Ben," he said, "The keys?"

Ben sighed and swept a hand down his face. "I know we can't leave Lauren behind, but how the hell do you think you're going to find us? You don't know your way around here very well."

"I'll go with him," Marvin offered, stepping away from the back of the bus where he'd been helping Rachel load up. "I know this town like the back of my hand."

Jerome hesitated, sharing an anxious glance with Ben. "Are you sure? You don't have to do that."

Marvin rolled his eyes and said, "I'll be_ fine_. I want to help."

"Okay, thank you." Jerome dipped his head gratefully. To Ben, he added, "Just head for the northern exits like Keith said. We'll find you."

Ben plodded back down the steps to rejoin him outside. "Here," he said, placing the keys in Jerome's outstretched hand and briskly pulling him into a hug. "You managed to make it back to us once. You damn well better do it again."

"I will, I will." Jerome patted him on the back. He turned to Emma next.

She sniffled and clutched at his hands, as though she could anchor him there and prevent him from leaving. "Please be careful, Papa," she begged.

Jerome pressed a kiss to her forehead and smiled. "Of course, my chérie. I'll see you soon."

Marvin squeezed outside behind Ben and gave his son a quick, one-armed embrace, then wordlessly rushed along Jerome towards the Buick that sat waiting across the parking lot. Rachel hopped off the back of the bus and ran to catch up to her husband, kissing him goodbye. The whole moment set off alarm bells inside Ben's head. His father hadn't been in the city without him since the excursion with Lauren and Rachel, and before that not since this whole mess had begun. And Jerome...well, as much as Ben didn't want to admit it, he hadn't really expected to see him again after Arnold drove them away from the intersection, not unless he went back and found him himself. He still didn't have a whole lot of faith in Jerome's capabilities. He hadn't had enough experience.

As the Buick rumbled to life and sped out of the parking lot, steam puffing from the exhaust pipe, Ben couldn't help but think they were just testing fate at this point.

The glowing red tail lights shrank as the distance between the Buick and the City Hall grew, and once Ben's eyes readjusted to the dark, his heart plummeted. Shambling figures filled the space in the road where the car had been moments before. A writhing wall of walkers stumbled into the parking lot. Some of them seemed interested in the fire, but almost all of them had their sights set on the living. Keisha, who had been helping bring supplies out from the foyer, dropped the box she was carrying and shrieked.

Ben raised his pistol and started firing. Between shots, he hollered, "Everyone hurry, we have to go!"

* * *

Jerome sat hunched close to the steering wheel and drove, on and on, swerving around wandering biters and glistening icy patches. Neither he nor Marvin had uttered a word since they left the City Hall, but Jerome had a feeling they were in similar headpaces. They both saw the biters in the rearview mirror as they left, marching towards the parking lot with purpose. Towards Jerome's wife and daughter, and Marvin's son, and a dozen other people who didn't deserve to die by the savage bite of the undead. There was a strange tightness to Jerome's throat that had nothing to do with the punch he'd taken earlier. Not for the first time, he found himself questioning if he was doing the right thing.

Familiar, old-fashioned houses came into view as Jerome turned left, retracing his journey to the City Hall in reverse, and he found himself on East Fifth Avenue. A neighborhood without streetlamps, without a single illuminated window, was a whole new world of eeriness. Jerome slowed as he continued up the street, squinting towards the right to try and spot the house he'd left Yuka in. He could vaguely recall the numbers on the front when they'd gone inside, but it didn't do him much good now.

And then it became very obvious, very fast. The house stood just ahead, corpses strewn throughout the yard and blood splattered on the snow, the front door slightly ajar. Jerome slammed on the breaks. "That's it," he said quietly, cutting the engine. Turning to Marvin, added, "You might want to stay here."

Marvin huffed. "I'll be fine, Jerome. I came to help."

Jerome twisted and reached into the back seat to retrieve his rifle - or Clarence's rifle, rather - and gave a short sigh. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to Marvin, but he _did_ need the help. "This street was loaded with biters when I left," he explained, bracing the gun against the steering wheel and staring at it blankly. He had no idea how to tell if it was out of bullets, or needed to be cocked, or...how to use it in general. The three shots he'd fired off at the City Hall had pounded his shoulder, giving him the impression he didn't know how to hold it properly either. Clearing his throat to cover up his hesitation, he continued, "Uh, I don't know where they could've gone. There were a few in the house too."

"We can handle it." Marvin arched his back against the seat to reach his hip and grunted as he pulled a pistol free. "I wish we could've found my rifle."

"Wanna trade?"

"Nah." Marvin wrinkled his nose. "That's a little too much power for me."

"Alright." Jerome slipped the gun's strap over his neck and stepped outside. He and Marvin eased the doors closed as silently as they could. The street was clear of all undead, and there wasn't so much as a cricket chirping. Jerome strode to the house and crept onto the porch, half expecting the inside to be crawling with biters. He motioned for Marvin to hang back as he pushed the front door open as far as the couch on the other side would allow, and slipped inside.

It was even darker than before, which sent a rush of anxiety up Jerome's neck, cold and hot all at once. He could hardly even make out the furniture in the living room. Marvin slipped inside behind him and said, "Aw, man. Why the hell didn't we bring flashlights?"

Two growls sounded from opposite ends of the room. Jerome gasped and raised his gun, but he couldn't see a thing. Uneven steps scuffed along the wood floor towards him. "Where are they?" he asked, looking to Marvin with wide, desperate eyes, just barely able to make out the older man's silhouette a few feet away. "Do you see them?"

Marvin fired three shots towards the ceiling in quick succession. White flashes blast from the end of his gun and captured the slack face of a biter for only a split second. "There's one," he said, aiming where he'd seen the face and firing. The soft, wet _thump_ of a body hitting the floor quickly followed, only a few feet away.

A hand brushed up against Jerome's back. He cried out, leapt forward, and whirled back around so quickly he almost fell all. "Where is it!?" he demanded, sending a couple shots towards the door. In the brief muzzle blast, he saw the biter was heading towards Marvin now. Jerome directed his rifle towards the general area that the biter was imprinted in his memory, and fired off two booming rounds. The moans ceased, and he heard another thump.

Jerome didn't move from where he stood and tried to listen over his own shallow breath. His straining ears, temporarily half deaf from the gunfire, were met with nothing but silence. "I think that's it," he said.

Marvin replied, "Let's get on with it then."

Jerome felt his way to the stairs and started up, one hand sliding along the sleek wooden railing. He stopped at the final step and, to his relief, found that the hallway was clear. "He's down here." Jerome motioned towards the faint outline of a door at the end of the passage, forgetting Marvin probably couldn't see him.

"Be ready," Marvin warned him. "We don't know if that amputation nonsense worked."

Jerome was all too aware. The ten feet he walked to the door seemed like ten miles. His hand hovered above the knob. He almost didn't want to go inside. He didn't want to find another person dead because of him. Taking a deep breath that made his battered ribs ache, Jerome opened the door and pressed his weight against it. The desk barricading the other side slowly slid out of the way, creating a gap big enough for him to fit through.

Cold air flooded in through the open window, and the soft glow of the moon outlined Yuka's still form on the floor. He was surrounded by a dark pool of blood and his detached arm remained by his side. Jerome gingerly crouched down and reached for his wrist, feeling for a pulse. It took a moment, but there was a weak throbbing against his fingers. He smiled and said, "He's alive."

Marvin moved to stand by the foot of the bed, but didn't come any closer. "Have you thought this through?" he questioned, crossing his arms. "Another mouth to feed, another body for Rachel to try and nurse back to health..."

"I know," Jerome said, his tone a little gruff with defensiveness. Yuka wasn't a stray dog they were taking in, he was a severely injured human being. One who'd all but been abandoned by the people he'd almost died trying to do his duty to, at that. Jerome slid his hands under Yuka's shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position. "Marvin, will you get his legs?"

Marvin wrapped his arms around Yuka's calves, then the two of them hoisted him up. Marvin grunted and said, "This isn't gonna be fun, getting him down the stairs…"

"Just try not to drop him, he's got enough problems." Together, Jerome and Marvin slowly inched their way out into the hallway and down the stairs. One step at a time, excruciatingly slow to the point the muscles in Jerome's arms were trembling by the time they reached the living room, they managed to get Yuka downstairs.

Marvin shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Now what?"

"To the car," Jerome said, carefully walking backwards to lead the way out the door. "We'll put him in the backseat."

They slowly moved out on the porch and across the yard. Jerome's foot slipped off the curb as they reached the street and he almost dropped Yuka, earning a less than amused look from Marvin.

Once they had gently lowered Yuka into the back of the Buick, Jerome began to close the door, but stopped.

Marvin asked, "What's the matter?"

"Well, for one thing," Jerome began, "One of us should probably sit back here and keep an eye on him." He chewed at his lip. "And I'm just now realizing...I can't remember exactly how to get back to where I left Lauren."

"Oh." Marvin scrubbed at the stubble along his jaw thoughtfully. "Can you remember anything about the area?"

"It was an auto shop," Jerome said. "Joe's or Jim's, something like that. But I can't remember where it was." He dipped his head, a cold chill rushing through him. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to Lauren because he was dumb enough to forget where he left her.

Marvin drummed his fingers atop the car for a moment, then hummed. "I think I know what you're talking about. Orange letters on the outside, two doors on the front?"

"Yeah," Jerome said hesitantly, "But doesn't that describe _every_ auto shop?"

"Nah, not around here." Marvin motioned for Jerome to get in. "Come on, I'll drive. You keep an eye on him."

* * *

Ben found the northern exits Keith mentioned with little difficulty. They had escaped from the City Hall by the skin of their teeth and to the sound of hands pounding against the bus's thin, bullet riddled exterior. It must've been twenty minutes before Rachel's breathing went back to normal. Even if it was the new normal, as she suspected, she would never get used to being surrounded by walkers like that.

He pulled the bus over to the side of the main road, just outside of where it merged into the exit, then quickly headed outside with Carmen and Rachel to make sure the area was clear. To everyone's relief, there wasn't a single walker in sight. Rachel still hoped they wouldn't be stuck there for long.

Abandoned cars sat haphazardly as far as the eye could see, blanketed in a thin layer of snow. While Carmen returned to the bus to be with her nephew, Rachel and Ben lingered outside. Ben stood leaned up against the back bumper with his arms crossed, watching the road with wide eyes. Rachel sidled up beside him and mimicked his posture.

"They'll be here soon," she said, but without any of her usual confidence.

Ben smirked. "You know, I remember a couple months ago, my dad almost ripped my head off for even considering coming into town after dark."

"Do as I say, not as I do, huh?" Rachel forced a smile. "Well, I'm very grateful to Marvin for going with Jerome. He didn't have to."

Ben shrugged and said, "That's dad for you."

Rachel felt like their voices could've carried for miles. It left her on edge. She shoved off from the bus and quietly said, "I'm gonna look around again, double check things are clear."

"Good thinking," Ben said.

Rachel drew the small flashlight from her coat pocket and directed the beam in front of her. Her mind wandered as she strolled past the bus, thinking about what Jerome had said. He'd taken the time to amputate a stranger's arm while she and her daughter were being held hostage. And not just any stranger, one that had been shooting at him. Whether it made her a worse or better person was debatable, but she couldn't help but think had the roles been reversed, her focus would've been completely on her family. It always had been. In the very beginning, when the only signs that something wasn't right were weird news stories and unusual patients in the emergency room, Rachel risked everything she'd worked for and left her job without a moment's notice to be with her family.

She had a feeling if it was Jerome who had her job, he'd _still_ be in that hospital, trying to save somebody. That was who he was and always had been, and she loved him for it, but she couldn't begin to understand.

A thick line of white-laden spruce trees just off the road rustled. Rachel halted. A lone walker pushed out from the branches, all bone and taut skin and scraggly hair. Rachel immediately reached for her gun and stopped herself just in time - she couldn't risk that noise. However, she had never killed one with a knife before, and she wasn't about to start now. Not in the pitch black dark, when she hadn't slept a wink in twenty-four hours or more and hardly eaten anything all day.

"Ben," she hissed, backing towards the bus. "_Ben_!

He jogged past her, and in an instant, drew his knife and planted it in the side of the walker's head. "You know," he said, wrenching his weapon free and flicking gunk from the blade, "I think you're all due for self-defense training."

Rachel pursed her lips. She'd already been kicking herself for not taking Clarence up on lessons. "I know."

"Maybe we should keep looking around," he said, eyeing the sparse woods. "If we missed that one, we might've missed more."

"Why don't we both stay out here and keep watch for a while?" She suggested.

Ben shrugged. "I guess an extra set of eyes couldn't hurt, but aren't you tired?"

Rachel snorted. "As if I can sleep with my husband out there." She shook her head and started around towards the other side of the bus. "Just let me look in on Emma and I'll be right back."

Almost everyone on the bus was dozing, but there were a few sniffles and whimpers amongst the snores. Rachel hovered on the steps, not wanting to wake anyone. Keisha and Aaliyah both sat awake near the front, crying quietly. Adrian dozed with his head in his aunt's lap, who was also resting. Samantha sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, her breathing even with the rhythm of sleep. Emma was curled up by herself at the back of the bus, and even though she didn't look to be in a very restful sleep, Rachel was glad she could finally check out from the day for a while.

And then, two bright beams of light sliced through the bus. All of Rachel's courtesy towards those sleeping flew out the window as relief, as pure and overwhelming as she had ever known, fell over her like a warm blanket. "They're here," she said, her voice high enough with joy to be a squeal. "They found us!"

The Buick swerved over to park behind Peggy's truck, and the car had hardly been at rest for more than two seconds before the doors swung open. Jerome emerged from the back, a sheepish look on his face. "You've got two patients," he said, greeting Rachel with a kiss.

At first she wasn't sure why he was so withdrawn. Then, with Marvin's help, Lauren came staggering out of the car, mumbling under her breath and cursing the whole time. Her face was shockingly pale, and she had dark circles beneath her eyes, but there was a firmness to her expression that showed she still had plenty of strength.

"Ben," she called, her voice low and hoarse. He was approaching with a smile, one that fell away as soon as he and Lauren's gazes met. "What the _fuck_, huh? Am I really supposed to sit beside the guy that ambushed and shot me?"

Peggy came from her truck with a grunt, slamming the door all too loud. "Well, now that you've put it like that," she said, "this doesn't make much sense to me either."

"You've got to give him a chance," Jerome pleaded. "He's not like them."

"How would you know?" Peggy demanded. "You knew him for what, half an hour?"

"Enough," Ben snapped. "What can we do now, besides leave him on the side of the road?" No one had an answer to that, though nobody looked any happier, either. Rachel wasn't too bothered herself - she trusted Jerome's judgement, even if she didn't understand it - but she could certainly see why some of the others were upset. Ben shook his head and said, "Look, this has to stop. I don't want to make every decision on my own, but we're not always gonna be able to sit down and talk things over."

Marvin readjusted the hold he had on Lauren to keep her upright and quietly said, "I'm sorry, but I don't understand why he has to come with us either. Doesn't it make more sense to drop him off back at the City Hall?"

Jerome huffed, and Rachel could tell his patience was thinning. "You heard them," he said, "They don't want him."

"_You_ are so goddamn infuriating," Lauren snapped, shoving Jerome's shoulder so hard she almost toppled over. He stumbled back a couple steps and stared back at her, mouth agape. She barked, "He shot at you too! And you went out of your way to save me, only to take your sweet time while I was freezing to death on a roof to help our attacker." Her expression twisted into one of disgust. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

The silence that followed her rant was practically a physical force, a black cloud of silence that enveloped those gathered on the cold, moonlit highway and sealed their mouths shut. Jerome blinked at her, his eyes hopelessly tired and lost. "I don't know," he finally answered, then stalked off towards the bus.

Rachel watched him go with a heavy heart. They hadn't even spoken about what had happened yet, but she knew whatever had taken place throughout the night was steadily cracking the strong foundation he'd been trying so hard to project, and Lauren might've just finished him off. Rachel turned her frustrated gaze upon the younger woman, but could only be but so mad...she was injured, and scared, and had been sitting on a roof above a bunch of walkers alone for the past several hours.

That was when Rachel realized they were waiting for her direction to begin helping the injured. She cleared her throat and said, "Okay, Peggy, will you go get the med bag off the bus?" The older woman set off at the fastest pace her arthritic hips could manage, and Rachel turned to Ben. "Why don't we clear out the bed of her truck so I'll have somewhere to work on them?"

"Right," Ben said, nodding. He motioned to Courtney, who'd been standing in the shadows watching everything unfold. "Give me a hand."

* * *

The night was all but over before Rachel's work on Lauren and Yuka was finished. By pure coincidence no doubt, Jerome had left behind enough flesh on Yuka's arm for Rachel to stitch it overtop the wound and create a proper stump, with no exposed tissue. It wasn't pretty, and she definitely saw an infection in his future, but he was stable. He even briefly woke up once, moaning and narrowing his dark, soulful eyes. Rachel could tell he was disoriented, and introduced herself as Jerome's wife, which seemed to calm him. He nodded and quickly passed back out, his head thumping softly against the truck bed. It was for the best, and was par for the course with all the pain meds and antibiotics Rachel and shot into him. For now, he needed rest more than anything else.

Everything seemed typical of her experience with amputees - the thready pulse, shallow breathing, slight fever. She was sure if she had a way to monitor his blood pressure, that would be low too. The nerve wracking part was it all seemed awfully close to someone about to turn into a biter, so Ben resolved to locking him in the Buick for the night, with those on watch periodically checking in.

Lauren was actually the better-off of the two, although she certainly had a long recovery ahead as well. The bullet had gone clear through her thigh and missed the femoral artery. Jerome hadn't managed to stop the bleeding, but his belt did slow it enough that Rachel wasn't worried about her dying of blood loss. Like Yuka, she simply needed to rest and let her body do what it was designed to do. Only time would tell how much permanent damage her leg suffered, but Rachel was optimistic she'd be left with a slight limp at worst.

All in all, Lauren was _extremely_ fortunate. Rachel had seen people in similar condition come into the ER and wind up in the morgue because they were shot with a larger caliber of bullet, or were hit an inch higher or lower. Lauren was simply shot in the right place, if there was such a thing. Not that it didn't hurt - Rachel was sure they were going to run through most of the painkillers within a week.

Even after she'd done what she could for Yuka and Lauren and they were down for the count, Rachel still didn't sleep. Neither did Jerome, or Ben, or Keisha. Jerome insisted on keeping watch, both on their surroundings and on Yuka. He lounged on the hood of the car for most of the night, his back pressed against the windshield, staring off at the thin, dark woods with blank eyes.

Once, Rachel tried to get him to talk about what happened. She slowly walked over to the car, mentally going back and forth on whether or not to say anything, and ultimately deciding she _had_ to know. "So…" she began, coming to sit beside his legs. "What happened at the City Hall?"

"A lot," he said, not meeting her eyes.

She knew she probably should've taken that as a sign he didn't want to get into it, but she decided to push her luck. "Did you cause that explosion, and kill those men?" she asked, the thoroughly scorched bodies of those two _things_ hardly recognizable as human flashing in her mind. And then there was Captain Lancaster, laying dead with a slim hole in his head.

"Yes," he said, and left it at that.

The simplicity of his answer jolted Rachel, a wave of shock numbing her brain. She had expected it, but to actually hear him confirm it was a whole different thing. There was still so much she didn't understand, things only he could tell her, but she knew it wouldn't be tonight. She forced a smile and carded her fingers through his hair, dirty as it was. "I love you."

"I love you too."

As the first light of dawn glowed orange on the horizon, Rachel and Jerome joined Ben and Keisha in front of the bus. Keisha had spent the night alternating between sobbing, and pacing around outside under Ben's watch. Now the tears had dried, leaving obvious streaks down her dark face, and she eyed the rising sun with an eerie sense of calm.

"Today's a new day," Ben said. "We'll rest up and siphon some more fuel. Then tomorrow...we're off to Anchorage."

* * *

**A/N: And that's a wrap on what will henceforth be known as Survive the Walking Dead: Volume One! Man, I can't express how much I've loved writing this and seeing all your thoughts and reactions along the way. Thank you so much to everyone who has supported me, there were several people these past two years whose continued interest has helped me see this project through. Every review and comment has made me smile.**

**As you may have gathered, I 100% am going to write a second volume. I've already got some good plans in place and I'm ridiculously excited. I got told a few times that this story was too slow and there weren't enough walkers, so I'm finally gonna say it...that literally was the point. It was intentional. The purpose of this was largely to show how I imagine a rural, less populated state fared in The Walking Dead universe, and specifically one where the weather is almost as much of a threat as the walkers. In any case, if you ever felt the action was lacking, the second volume is definitely going to be more fast-paced. It'll take a while to get everything ironed out, and I want at least the first eight chapters finished before I start posting at all to have a decent backlog and avoid the weird, sporadic updates I always had with this fic. So, right now I'm gonna shoot for Spring 2021 to premiere Volume Two. I've also had some shorter TWD stories unrelated to this one bouncing around in my head for a while, so I might work on something of that nature too.**

**If y'all have opinions on characters that you'd like to see more or less of, please feel free to let me know, I very well may take that into account as I'm working on Volume Two! I'd really love to hear any and all honest thoughts you have. Praise, criticism, whatever - go for it, it all makes me a better writer. And any corrections to the medical stuff are welcome. I try to research, but there isn't a whole lot of info on what happens after someone's arm is hacksawed off.**

**Thanks again for reading. :)**


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